Here I Stay by KATHY

blue glazed bowl protecting a miniature landscape—swelling hills and amber fields, wood and pasture and stream and valley. To the west, where the mountains stood in sharp outline against the sunset, a single bank of cloud remained; the sun, behind it, edged its rim with sharpest gold, like the fringe on a king's purple mantle. As the sun dropped lower, free of the cloud bank, every color in the autumn landscape sprang into clearer focus and brighter color, as water flowing over a pebble turns it into a gleaming gem. Its beauty would change but would not diminish with the passing season; in winter a world of sable and ermine and crystal, and in the spring...Suddenly she felt that she could hardly wait for spring, when dogwood and apple trees were white with blossom and the stream ran deep between banks sprinkled with wild flowers. And she wondered if there could be a lovelier land, in this or any other world.
    "I'm going to move up here," Jim said. "Into this room."
    He took the glass from her before much of the milk had spilled. "Jim, you can't possibly—" she began.
    "It's always 'can't.' I didn't expect you to understand."
    "I do understand. You want to get away from me."
    He had braced himself for a struggle. Her stricken face softened and disarmed him. "Not you, Andy— not you personally. I mean, if you're afraid to be alone down there, or anything like that..."
    He had offered her a weapon, but she could not use it, not after he had given it with such touching gallantry. Memory weakened her even more—the memory of a desolate young voice saying, "I didn't want to come back."
    "I'm not afraid," she said. "That's not it."
    He knew he had won. His face lit up with the look she found so hard to resist. "Just look," he urged. "Look at it. It could be the best room in the house. I'll fix it up—paint and paper and everything."
    He was right. The quaint, odd-shaped room had enormous charm. It would appeal to anyone with a spark of imagination or taste. She realized that he had already begun work. The litter on the floor had been swept into a pile, and one section of peeling wallpaper had been removed.
    "I don't mind your moving," she lied stoutly. "But there's so much to do here! The windowsill is rotten and the plaster on the ceiling is bad.. .And I'm worried about the floor."
    She knew he had won. But she couldn't force herself to make a formal concession, not quite yet. She moved around the room, examining the cracked plaster and stamping on the floor. Maddeningly, it absorbed the punishment she gave it until she neared the door.
    "Here—this board sags badly. Probably rotted."
    "I saw that: I can fix it."
    Andrea knelt. "But if the joist is bad..." Her fingers traced the crack, and she said in surprise, "It's not even nailed down. I can lift it right up."
    "Maybe a couple of nails is all it needs." Jim came to her side.
    The space exposed when she lifted the board was like a long narrow box, its base the ceiling of the room below, its sides the rough joists. Dust lay thick, like rolls of dirty cotton wool, outlining the shape of something underneath. Jim was quicker to comprehend than Andrea. His breath caught, and he exclaimed, "The board isn't rotted. It was the cover of someone's secret hiding place. Pull out the nails, cover it with a rug, and no one would suspect. What's in it?"
    It appeared to be a sheaf of heavy papers tied together into a scrapbook. The ribbon that bound the sheets, now of an indeterminate gray shade, crumbled as Andrea lifted the object out and brushed the muffling dust away. The cover was of heavy cardboard bound in fabric, so filthy that its original pattern could not be discerned, but it had protected the pages inside fairly well.
    They were a collection of drawings—pen-and-ink, charcoal, watercolor—and had evidently been done over an extended period of time, for the skill of the unknown artist increased with each page. Flower sketches, doll-faced women in elaborate bustled gowns, a