I was sorry when Miss Cheriton pronounced in favour of the den. I liked the look of that drawing-room, with its three long, narrow windows opening on to the bowling-green. It had faint, yellowish panelled walls and an old-fashioned blue couch, and there was some beautiful china on an Indian cabinet. No doubt that was where his mother and Miss Agnes used to sit. Perhaps the room held sad memories for him, and he was glad to close the door upon them. Mr. Hawtry’s den was a small front room, with a view of the privet hedge and the walnut tree, and was plainly furnished with a round table and well-worn leather chairs, the walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, his gun and a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols occupying the place of honour over the mantelpiece. Joyce called it an ugly room, but I thought it looked comfortable and home-like, with its pleasant litter of magazines and papers, and Gay said at once— “I do like this old den of yours, Mr. Hawtry; it is such a snug room, especially in winter, when father and I have come in after a long, cold ride.” “You do not come as often now, Miss Gay,” he said, looking at her a little keenly. She coloured, as though the remark embarrassed her, and seemed bent on excusing herself. “I am such a busy person, you see, and now I spend all my leisure time with the children. Am I not a devoted aunt, Merle?” “You are very good to give us so much of your company,” I returned, for I saw she wanted me to speak; but just then a flash of lightning frightened Joyce away from the window, and she came to me for protection. Reggie, too, began to cry, and I had some trouble in pacifying him. Gay good-naturedly came to my assistance. “Supposing we take the children into the other room and show them the shells; it would distract their attention from the storm. We will leave you to read your paper in peace, Mr. Hawtry.” But he insisted on going with us. The cabinet had a curious lock, he assured us, and no one could open it but himself. The children were delighted with the shells, and a little green Indian idol perfectly fascinated Reggie. He kissed the grinning countenance with intense affection, and murmured, “Pretty, pretty.” My attention was attracted to a miniature in a velvet frame. It was a portrait of a round-faced, happy-looking girl, with brown eyes, rather like Mr. Hawtry’s. “That was my sister Agnes,” he said, with a sigh, and for a moment his face clouded over. “She died two years ago, after years of intense suffering. That miniature was painted when she was eighteen. She was a bright, healthy creature then. Look, that was her couch, where she spent her days. There is a mystery in some lives, Miss Fenton. I never understood why she was permitted to suffer all these years.”