dividual, independent nature, for it seems he disliked the idea of
killing things for pleasure, and was never a hunter or even a fisherman.
Consequently, there are no monster fish under glass, or rare birds or
butterflies, or stuffed animals. He must have loved wild creatures
though, for five of the beloved pictures are masterly oil-paintings by
well-known artists, of lions and tigers and stags, _chez eux_, happy and
at home, not being hunted, or standing agonized at bay. Oh, getting this
den in order has taught me more about the real Jim than a girl can learn
about a man in ordinary acquaintance in a year! But then I had a
wonderful foundation to begin building upon: that day in the
rose-arbour--the red-rose day of my life.

Well, when the car was expected back from the station, bringing Jim home
to his mother, I went by her command to the den. Even that was better
than having to meet him in the presence of those two dear souls who
trusted and loved me only second to him. And yet everything in the den
which had meant something in Jim's life, seemed to cry out at me, as I
shut the door and stood alone with them--and my pounding heart--to wait.

I didn't know how to make the time pass. I was too restless to sit
down. I wouldn't let myself look out of the window to see the car come
along the drive. I dared not walk up and down like the caged thing I
was, lest the floor should creak, for the tower-room--the den--is over
the entrance-hall. I felt like a hunted animal--I, the one creature to
whom Jim Beckett deliberately meant to be cruel! I, in this room which
was a tribute to his kindness of heart, his faithfulness, his loyalty!
But why should it not be so? I had no right to call upon these qualities
of his.

The horn of the little Red Cross taxi! It must be turning in at the
gate. How well I knew its gay, conceited tootle! An eighth of a mile,
and the car would reach the house. Even the poor worn-out taxi couldn't
be five minutes doing that!...

If I ran to the window between the towers I could see! No, I wouldn't; I
_couldn't_. I should scream--or faint--or do something else idiotic, if
I saw Jim Beckett getting out of the car, and his mother flying to meet
him. I had never felt like this in my whole life--not in any suspense,
not in any danger.

Instinctively I walked as far from the window as I could. I sought
sanctuary under Brian's cathedral picture--the picture that had
introduced me to Jim. Yes, sanctuary I so