"Of course you know that it is a picture of Karl. But the critics here call it less a portrait than the incarnation of an idea. Light and truth sweeping in upon a human soul--one of them expressed it. But why try to tell you of that? When you see it you will understand what it is I have tried to do. And you shall see it soon. After it is exhibited here they want it in Vienna, and I cannot refuse, for Karl loved Vienna, and then a short time in London, and then I come with it to America, and to Chicago. I am bringing it home, Doctor, for even though it find final resting place in that great temple of science in Paris, I have the feeling, in taking it to Chicago, that I am bringing it home. And the first day it is exhibited there I want you and me to go to it together, as Karl would like that we should. "I am so tired that I do not believe I shall ever be quite rested again. For the last three months I lived with the picture, my heart and mind knew nothing else. But the day I finished it my strongest feeling was a regret that it was finished, a yearning to go on with it forever. For doctor, I painted my heart, my life, everything that I had within myself, everything I had taken from Karl, into that picture. I am lonely now without it, for it made my life. "It has revived Karl's whole story. They tell it here--oh so lovingly. I heard one man from the Institute telling it all to a younger man as they stood before it yesterday. I have moved them to a new sense of Karl's greatness; it has been my glorious privilege to perpetuate him, make sure his place, _reveal_ him--for that is what I have sought to do. Was not life good to me to give me power to do that thing? "We shall be together in Chicago very soon--you and Karl and I. For as the days go on Karl comes closer. I hope, most of all, that the picture will bring him very close to you." That was three months before, and to-day he had this note from her, dated Chicago:--"Yes, I am here, and the picture is here. The public exhibit does not open for a few days, but the picture will be hung this morning, and we may see it this afternoon. I shall be there at three, waiting for you." CHAPTER XLIII "AND THERE WAS LIGHT" He spent the intervening hours restlessly; the hands of his watch moved slowly; his duties occupied only a small portion of his mind. He was at the Institute at just three, and they directed him where to go. His heart was beating fast as he walked down the corridor. The hand which he laid upon the door-knob shook a little. He opened the door, and a woman came toward him with outstretched hand. It was Ernestine--but the three years had done much.