"Shall we call it a temple?" he suggested, smiling.
"I believe it's heaven—the private particular Tristram heaven. They're all here!" She waved toward the pictures. "Here in a heaven of their own."
"And we're allowed to visit it before we die?"
"Yes. At least I am. You let me visit it. It belongs to you—to the dead and you."
"Do you want to stay here any longer?" he asked with a sudden roughness.
"Yes, lots longer," she laughed defiantly, quite undismayed. "You needn't, though. You'll have it all your life. Perhaps I shall never have it again. Father's better! And I don't know if you'll ever ask us here again. You never did before, you know. So I mean to have all of it I can get." She darted away from him and ran back to the miniatures. A richly ornamented sword hung on the wall just above them. This caught her notice; she took it down and unsheathed it.
"Henricus Baro Tristram de Blent," she spelt out from the enamelled steel. "Per Ensem Justitia. What
does that mean? No, I know. Rather a good motto, cousin Harry. 'That he shall take who has the power, and he shall keep who can!' That was his justice, I expect!"
"Do you quarrel with it? If this was all yours, would you give it up?"
"Not without a fight!" she laughed. "Per Ensem Justitia!" She waved the blade.