Jehane covered her face with her hands. “I'm a bitter woman--yes, and jealous. But that my own child should tell me--and should be able to say it truly!” She looked up. “If I were to try to be different, if I could prove to you that I was different----.” Riska put her arms about her mother's neck, “That's all in the future. But, oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I know you've done your best.” “My best!” Her voice was full of self-despisings. “Oh, well----!” She had lost her last illusion--her faith in her own righteousness. Barrington, watching the disillusioned woman, tried to trace in her features the eager face, tell-tale of dreamings, that had beckoned to him from a window on a summer's afternoon in Oxford. He found no resemblance. He turned to Riska, who had played life's game so recklessly, plunging off the raft of maidenhood, swimming and drifting on chance-found débris to the land of maternity, about which her mother was always talking. In searching Riska's face he found Jehane's dreamings come true--self-fulfilment and mastery. Sacrifice, by the road of sin, had accomplished them. He recollected how he had said of her, “Ripe fruit--ready to fall to the ground.” He smiled wisely, remembering his own unwisdom. CHAPTER XLVIII--AND GLORY He was late. It didn't matter; no one had been warned of his coming. He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The Winged Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent arm of a willow stooped the setting sun. All day he had had the sense of things watching--memories, associations of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to help or harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, taking a farewell glance at the old affections. As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, he had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! The Faun Man and himself--the way in which men mistake their love! Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water's surface. Thrusting himself forward, he sang and hummed, “I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia, Home and Colonia, Antipodonia-.” He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own autobiography--almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked it--it paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on. Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some weeks he had been trying to learn--this river-journey was the testing.