Meantime David Lindsay had scrambled up into his own little den. It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meeting in a peak overhead, with hardly room enough to stand upright, with bare walls, bare floor, and only one small window of four panes in front, which opened on hinges. It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with a blue and white patchwork quilt, and one chest that stood under the front window, and one shelf, on which stood Gloria’s precious books. He sat down on the chest, for there was no other seat, and opened his parcel of handkerchiefs, and examined them one by one. He saw his own name on each, worked in minute golden letters, formed of Gloria’s own radiant hair. He pressed each to his lips, to his heart. “Oh, more precious than all the treasures of Hindostan’s mines are these to me,” he murmured—“her own sacred hair, her own hallowed hands’ work! Oh, my angel, my angel, no word suits you but this—‘angel.’ I have this much of you, at least, and I will never part with it while I live—while I live—and then, afterwards, beyond this world, may there not be some realms of bliss where we may meet, as we met in guileless childhood and love, without a thought of any barrier of rank between us?” This, and much more; murmured the young man to himself, as he pressed the handkerchiefs to his heart, his lips and burning forehead. But the voice of his aged relative recalled him to his duty. With fond superstition he folded one handkerchief and put it in his bosom, with her bright hair next his heart. The others he folded carefully and put in his chest. Then he went below to hew wood and fetch water for the needs of the little home. Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner hour, when her short, impulsive resentment melted away before the mournful, even meek, reserve of his manner. After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat down at the piano, and played for him us usual, until the hour of retiring. The next morning, after their breakfast, as she turned to go up stairs, he called to her: “Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the library and sit with me, as usual?” “No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write to Aunt Agrippina.” “Can you not write it at one of the library tables?” “I would rather go up into my room, uncle.” “But why?” “Because—well—I would rather.” “Are you afraid of me, Gloria?” he inquired, very mournfully. She hesitated for a moment, and then answered, firmly: “Yes, I am.” “But why should you be?” “I—don’t—know,” she answered. “Then that is a most unjust and unreasonable fear of yours, for which you can assign no cause, my child.” She looked down and made no answer. “Do you not yourself think so, Gloria?” “Yes, no; I don’t know. Let me go up stairs now, please, uncle,” she said, in growing distress. “I do not hinder you, my child. You are as free as air. Go,” he said.