Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically. For whom had its sharp point been intended? Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. She answered slowly. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart.
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