"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!"
• • • • • • • •
"It is my lady: Oh it is my love!
Oh that she knew she were!"—Romeo and Juliet.

"HERE, I want this luggage taken—Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform crowd began to disperse.

It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess.

Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of delight.

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" he exclaimed.

"To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard. I've been round the world since I saw you last."

The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to him.

"And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though. If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals neither."

"Why, no—I've not been enjoying very largely the society of cannibals."

"Well, sir, you've come back anyway a deal stouter and stronger than you was—not as you're stout yet, so to speak, but you was thin and no mistake when you went away. And I do see a difference. I don't know as you ain't taller too."

"Taller after twenty! That would be against all rule. However, I certainly did depart a scarecrow, so perhaps it's admissible to turn up a Hercules. All well at home, Pollard?—Wife and chicks, eh?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. Naught but the old woman's rheumatiz for to grumble at—and she do say it takes a deal o' patience to carry that about with a body."

"I don't doubt it, poor thing. And all right at the Grange?"

"Yes, sir—so as I've heard. Save and except Mr. Browning's the same as usual, sir. Which in course you knows."

"Ah—yes," the two syllables being divided by a thoughtful break. Manner and voice had till this moment been marked by a frank joyousness, boy-like yet manly, but now there came a touch of gravity into Nigel's face. He stood for three seconds gazing across the rails into a misty distance, lost in cogitation; then roused himself.

"You will have the trunks up soon. I must be off."

"All right, sir."

Leaving his ticket with the collector, Nigel passed into the street. He went onwards in a swift steadfast manner; vigour and decision being apparent in every motion of the alert well-proportioned figure.

It did not surprise Nigel that nobody was at the station to meet him after his year of absence, wherein he had travelled literally "round the world." He had not expected to arrive till next morning, but finding an earlier train than he had hoped for "within catch," the temptation to surprise his home-folks had proved irresistible.

Newton Bury had been his home through life, and every wall and window in this busy High Street was familiar to him. Shops were shut, and people from within were airing themselves on the pavements after a hard day's work. Nigel saw many a well-known face as he went by, but he had no wish to be delayed, and it was easy to avoid recognition in the broken light of gas-lamps placed by no means too near together.

Leaving High Street and Broad Street, he hesitated one moment at the foot of some stone steps leading upward. This was the short-cut between station and home; for Newton Bury was a town built partly upon hills; and the Grange stood high. But a certain attraction drew him along the main thoroughfare.

"After all, it's not ten minutes' difference; and I should like one glimpse," he said to himself.

"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."

Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant in tone, was unmistakable.

"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his hand in greeting.

The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.

"I'm Nigel—just come home."

"Young Browning. Humph."

It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.

"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the lad."

"Am I so altered?"

"Altered! There's not an inch of you the same."

This was absurd, and Nigel smiled.

"What are you after here—eh?"

"Going home. Just arrived. They don't expect me till to-morrow, so it's to be a surprise."

"Why on earth didn't you take the steps? Missed them in the dark? That's not like you. Some folks do go mooning about with their eyes in the stars; but I thought you were practical."

"I didn't miss the steps. I came this way by choice."

"Hey? What for?"

"A fancy of mine. I must be off, or my luggage will arrive first."

"Not if you keep up the pace you were going just now." Mr. Carden-Cox paused to survey Nigel all over, from head to foot, as if gauging his value. "Yes—you've filled out—expanded—developed—twice the man you were! But there's something about you which I don't quite understand. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon."

Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over the wall-tops.

This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.

That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.

The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm, always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses, and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar and dear to him.

At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers; for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.

Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.

It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room, as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of course!

He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.

Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.

Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within, her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.

"Mother, we'll let in a breath of air just for a minute. It is so mild to-night. Lance, is that somebody in the garden?"

Nigel almost uttered the word—"Ethel!" Almost, but not quite. It was leaving his lips, when he caught it back. Once within that room, how could he tear himself away?

There were reasons why it might be better not. With an effort Nigel turned and walked out of the gate. And as he went, he found himself face to face with somebody coming in—a large loosely-built man in a greatcoat, walking with the tired stoop in head and shoulders often born of a hard day's work. The light of the nearest lamp fell upon a rugged face, full of the beauty of goodness.

"Anything wanted?" asked the Vicar.

Mr. Elvey never by any chance passed a human being who might "want" something of him.

"No—thanks," Nigel answered dutifully, hoping but not wishing to pass on.

"I know that voice!" said the Vicar.

[CHAPTER II]

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE

"There are briars besetting every path,
Which call for patient care."—A. L. WARING.

"FULVIE—"

"Anice, my dear, allow me to remark that the way to get work done is not to sit in a brown study for exactly half-an-hour."

"Half-an-hour!"

"A metaphorical one, of course. How many stitches have you put into that leaf since dinner?"

"I don't know—but—I can't imagine why Nigel didn't settle to come home to-night."

"No train, he says."

"But there is a train."

"He thought there was not."

"Daisy found one directly she looked—just at the right time."

"Daisy's a clever young woman. Daisy isn't Nigel, however."

"No—" and a pause, Anice leaning back dreamily. "No. But I have been wondering—what if Nigel did know of the train, only perhaps he wanted a night in London."

"Why shouldn't he have said so, then? You little wretch, to suspect him of deceit."

"Oh no—only perhaps he might have been glad of the excuse. I mean, he might have made the mistake first, and then not have cared to change. He might have been afraid that we should mind his not hurrying home, if he did stay."

Fulvia stamped her foot. "Anice, you put me out of patience. But you are all alike! You none of you understand Nigel—never did, and never will, I suppose. You needn't stare at me so reproachfully, for it is true. Now do get on with that unfortunate leaf. What shade do you mean to use next?"

Three girls—Mr. Browning's two daughters, Anice and Daisy, and his ward, Fulvia Rolfe—sat alone in the Grange drawing-room. Lamps and candles dotted about the large room gave a pleasant light; curtains were drawn, and a fire blazed.

Daisy, the younger girl, huddled into a sofa-corner, with a book which absorbed all her attention, was round-faced and plump, with a clever full brow and innocent lips. Though close upon sixteen, she was childish still, alike in manner and in the almost infantile simplicity of her thick white frock. Anice, nearly three years older, wore a white dress likewise, but of thinner texture and more elaborate make, and while undoubtedly a pretty girl, with delicate features and changeful colouring, her face not only lacked force but had a look of marked self-occupation, sufficient to spoil the fairest outline. Daisy's contented brown eyes contained better promise for the future; and people were apt to grow early tired of Anice.

Fulvia Rolfe presented a contrast to the sisters. Some two years the senior of Anice, she was not so tall as the latter, nor so stout as Daisy; and the first idea commonly received about her was of a sturdy vigour of body and mind. Though by no means beautiful, since her face was rather flat, with a retrousse nose, and eyes which had an odd eastern slant in the manner of their setting, she yet possessed a certain power of attraction. Those same light grey eyes were full of sparkle; the lips were expressive; the abundant red-brown hair was skilfully arranged; the figure, though not slight, was particularly good; and the hands, if neither small nor especially white, were well formed and soft.

"Which shade?" Anice repeated vacantly. "I don't know. One of these four, I suppose."

"If a tablecloth is worth making at all, it is worth making not hideous. Let me see the greens. Impossible to choose in this light. You will have to leave it till to-morrow. Where is the madre all this time?" For Fulvia Rolfe, left early an orphan, and unable to recollect her own parents, had fallen into a mode of calling Mrs. and Mr. Browning by the titles of "madre" and "padre." The mode was copied, not seldom, by their own children.

"She went to the study. Padre wanted her, I believe. It is one of his bad days, and I suppose he couldn't stand all of us."

Fulvia's lips took a naughty set. "And so, because he is a little bad, we are all to be very sad."

"Father isn't well." Anice looked reproachful.

"He's not bound to be utterly doleful too, my dear."

"Madre said he was so depressed."

"Of course. Exactly what I mean. I never can quite see why one is to act as a wet blanket to all one's friends merely because one feels poorly or out of spirits. I'm not talking about padre in particular. The sort of thing is common enough. But I wonder when one is to exercise self-control if not when it goes against the grain. There's no merit in cheerfulness when one feels lively."

"I don't know what you mean, but you ought not to speak so of padre."

"I'm laying down a broad axiom—not applying it. No, of course you don't understand. Nobody understands anybody in this house. If one expects to be understood, one is disappointed. Hark! Is that the study door opening? . . . Yes, I thought so. Here comes the madre—doesn't she look sweet? And actually!—Absolutely!—The padre too!"

The lady, entering first, was slender in figure and graceful in movement, with regular features, and the softest dark eyes imaginable, full of wistful tenderness. She wore an evening dress of black velvet, trimmed with old lace, and her little hands hung carelessly, like snowflakes, against the sombre background. Though forty-five in age, no streaks of grey showed yet in the brown hair, upon which a light lace cap rested; and pretty as Anice unquestionably was, the daughter's prettiness paled before the mother's rare beauty.

Behind Mrs. Browning came her husband. There was nothing of the invalid about him apparent at first sight. A dignified middle-aged man; solid, but not corpulent in build; with grey hair, fast thinning, agreeable manners, and a face which did not lack its modicum of good looks—this was Mr. Browning. A keen observer would have noted a tired look about the brow—a good brow like Daisy's—and a restless dissatisfaction almost amounting to apprehension in the eyes; but Fulvia was the only keen observer present, and people in general were apt to pass over these little signs. Mr. Browning was a favourite in society. "A delightful man" was the verdict passed on him by a considerable circle of Newton Bury ladies.

The entrance of these two caused a general stir. Daisy sat in a less huddled position, and Fulvia drew forward an easy-chair for Mrs. Browning, while Anice changed her own seat to one nearer her father, as he took possession of the unused sofa-corner beside Daisy, and heaved a sigh.

"We thought you meant to forsake us altogether this evening," Fulvia remarked to Mrs. Browning.

"No, dear. Padre is so unwell to-day—he has that pain again, and it depresses him," was the under-toned answer. "But he promised to come in for a little while. It is better for him, I am sure—less dull."

"Better for you too."

"I don't think that matters. I wish anything could be done to touch this sad depression," as again, in response to some words of Anice, sounded the heavy sigh. "We have been talking about a little trip abroad. Perhaps it might do him good."

"When? Not before Christmas?"

"Yes, I think so. He seems to wish it."

Others were listening besides Fulvia, and a chorus of exclamations sounded. "Now, mother!" "Go abroad before Christmas!" "How about Nigel?" this was Fulvia's voice.

"Mother, you don't really mean it?" from Anice.

"Why, mother!" Daisy's rounded eyes suiting the tone of her second utterance. "You must have forgotten about Fulvia's birthday—Fulvia's coming of age."

"Hush, hush!" Mrs. Browning said nervously. She did not in the least know why her husband disliked any allusion to Fulvia's twenty-first birthday, but she knew that he did dislike it. His sudden movement was not lost upon her.

Daisy was of a persistent nature, not easily silenced. "But, mother, you know the 21st of December is Fulvia's birthday; and we meant to have all sorts of fun. If once we go abroad, we shall never get back in time. I know we shan't."

"Madre said nothing about our going, Daisy."

"Well, then, that will be worse still. Horridly dull to keep your twenty-first birthday without father and mother."

"Daisy, do hold your tongue. You are worrying the madre," whispered Fulvia.

"Why?" in a return whisper of astonishment.

"I haven't a notion. The fact is patent enough. Do let things go."

Daisy subsided, and for two minutes nobody spoke. Then a peal sounded at the front door.

Anice's lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. She almost said "Nigel!"

"Nonsense," Fulvia replied to the motion of her lips. "Not to-night."

But Simms came in. Simms was one of those unexceptionable modern men-servants who always have their wits about them, and who never can be startled. Simms prided himself on a perfect command of feature and of manner. Whatever happened, he seemed to have known it beforehand, to have been at that moment expecting it. In his usual style of composed confidence he entered, and as calmly as if announcing dinner, he said—

"Pollard from the station, sir, with Mr. Nigel's luggage."

"Mr. Nigel come!" cried Daisy, springing up. "No, Miss."

"Not come!" echoed other voices.

"No, ma'am. Pollard saw Mr. Nigel at the station, and expected him to be here first. But Mr. Nigel has not arrived."

"Strange," Mr. Browning said.

"Buying himself a new necktie by the way," suggested Fulvia, and Daisy's laugh sounded.

But Mrs. Browning and Anice exchanged looks, their faces falling.

[CHAPTER III]

ETHEL

"There is none like her, none."—TENNYSON.

"I KNOW that voice. Why—it's—"

Mr. Elvey did not finish the sentence. He caught Nigel's hand within two muscular palms, and nearly wrung it off.

"I didn't expect to be found out. Yes, I'm back. But you mustn't keep me, Mr. Elvey. How are you all? How is—Ethel?"

"Ethel's all right. The best girl that ever lived, if an old father has a right to say so. Come and see for yourself. There she is at the open window. My wife and all of them inside. How is she? Oh, much the same as always—very ailing, poor dear. Never knows what it is to be really well. But come, come along. Not keep you indeed! Rubbish and nonsense!" cried the Rector joyously, forgetting all about his own fatigue, and allowing Nigel no loophole for explanation. "Why, we were talking of you only an hour ago, wondering if the year of travel would alter you much. Has it? I can't see here. Come along—come!"

"I really ought not, I am afraid," protested Nigel, feeling as if the silken pull of Ethel's near presence, together with the Rector's grasp of his arm, were overcoming all his powers of resolution. "My baggage has gone home, and they will be expecting me."

"Well, well—we won't keep you three minutes. One shake hands all round. Why, what brought you here, if it wasn't for that? Ethel, Ethel!—Gilbert—Ralph—Lance—My dear!—" this meant his wife—"I've found an old friend in the garden, and he's trying to elope. Guess who! Open the door—somebody!"

They were almost under the window by this time, and Mr. Elvey did not need to raise his tones; indeed, the full impressive voice was used enough to making itself heard, and no barrier of glass intervened.

"What does he mean?" they heard Ethel ask merrily.

And in another moment she stood at the open hall door scanning the outside darkness.

She was plainly visible herself under the hall light. Nigel knew in a moment that the face which he had carried with him through his wanderings was unchanged—only a little developed, a little ripened, "prettier than ever," he told himself. Yet people in general did not count Ethel pretty. She had to be known intimately to be admired; and after all "pretty" was not the right word.

She wore an old dress, much older than anybody would have guessed from its appearance, since Ethel's fingers were gifted in the art of renovation. The shape of her face was that "short oval" which novelists are now so careful to distinguish from the unlovely "long oval." Brown hair was massed on the top of her head, straying over the brow, and brown fringes subdued the sparkling sunny eyes. The features could not be called good, and it was commonly a pale face, with none of Anice's quick changes of hue. Nigel, however, could never think that anything was wanting in that direction. He would not have had a line or a tint altered.

He had not spoken of his love to any human being. With all Nigel's frankness, there were reserve-depths below. He could not readily talk of the things which he felt most intensely. Some people no doubt can; but Nigel could not.

Whether others had guessed his secret before he left home, he had no means of knowing. Sometimes he thought that his mother had; and sometimes also he felt sure that his trip round the world had been arranged for him, not only on account of his health, but in reference to this. He had a strong impression that Mr. Browning had desired for him the test of a year's separation from Ethel. But these ideas he kept to himself. The year's separation had been lived through, and had made no difference. Ethel was dearer to him than ever.

"Father, did you say somebody was come? Who is it? Oh!—Nigel!!"

The lighting up of her face was worth seeing; and the little gasp of joy between those two words was worth hearing. Nobody thought anything of her delight; for had not she and Nigel been close friends from childhood? And was it not natural?

But to Nigel, this moment made up for all the long months of absence. He held her hand tightly for three seconds, how tightly he did not know; and the touch of those little fingers scattered to the winds all his previous resolutions. He stepped into the house.

"Nigel himself! Yes, I found him outside the garden gate. Actually protesting that he had come for a look, and didn't mean to be seen. Here, Lance, my boy, help me off with this coat. That's it. Come, Nigel, come and be inspected. My dear, I've brought an old friend, but you'll hardly recognise him. Eh?"

Mrs. Elvey, knitting slowly in an easy-chair, was a contrast to her sunny-tempered husband and daughter. Her face offered as good a specimen of the bony "long oval" as Ethel's of the shorter and more rounded type; and there was about it a somewhat unhappy look of self-pity and of discontented invalidism. No doubt she was not strong and often did suffer much. But no doubt also many in Mrs. Elvey's place would have been brighter, braver, less of a weight upon others' spirits, more ready to respond to others' interests. She welcomed Nigel kindly, but with the limp and listless air of one who really had so many trials of her own that she could not be expected to care much whom she did or did not see.

"Hardly up to the mark to-day you see—tired-out, poor dear!" explained the Rector, himself a hard-worked and often weary man; but he was counted strong, and few gave him a word of sympathy on that score. He looked solicitously at his wife and then turned to the young man. "Come; I must see what has been the effect upon you of it all—Japan, Timbuctoo, and the rest! Eh, Ethel? Is he the better or the worse?"

"Pollard thinks it a matter for congratulation that I have not become food for cannibals," laughed Nigel.

He was standing on the rug—a young fellow of good height and muscular make, a wonderful development from the overgrown reedy youth who had gone away more than twelve months earlier. The sickly white complexion of those days had given place to a healthy tan; and the face was strong, bright, good-looking. The eyes showed penetration and thought; the mouth spoke of firmness; the nose had that indefinable line, seen in side-face, which almost invariably denotes a sweet temper.

"He'll do," thought Mr. Elvey, after a moment's survey. "Successful experiment!"

"But you didn't go to the South Sea Islands," Ethel said, in answer to Nigel's last remark, while the three boys, varying in ages from sixteen to thirteen, stood admiringly round the returned traveller.

"No, we had not time. I should have liked it. But I didn't want to be longer away."

"And now—College?" asked Mr. Elvey.

"I hope so. After Christmas."

"And then?"

"If my father is willing, the Bar."

"He knows your wish."

"Has known it for years. I never could understand the reasons for his hesitation."

Mr. Elvey might have answered, "Nor anybody else," but did not.

"Well, you have both had time for consideration, and you have time still, for the matter of that. No need to decide yet."

"I would rather work through college with a definite aim."

A movement of assent answered him. "You know, of course, that Malcolm is ordained to the curacy of St. Peter's."

"Yes. Capital for you all having him within reach."

Nigel could hardly take his eyes off Ethel. He knew that it was time for him to say good-bye; yet he lingered, craving a few words with her first. Mr. Elvey soon turned to speak to his wife, and Nigel seized the opportunity, moving to Ethel's side.

"I must not stay; they will be expecting me at home, and wondering why I don't come," he said. "It's desperately hard to go so soon, but if I don't—"

"Yes. Oh, don't wait," she said at once; "we shall see you again very soon."

Nigel's face changed. He had not expected this. Was she so indifferent?

"I'm afraid I must," he repeated; yet he did not stir. Ethel's presence was like a fascination, holding him to the spot against his will, or rather enchaining his very will, so that for the time nothing else seemed to have weight. "I can't tell you what it is to me to come back again—here," he said softly. "It is like—"

"Like old days, isn't it?" she responded gaily. "You always were just one of our boys, you know,—in and out when you liked. We shall expect the same again."

"Will you? Don't you think I might come too often?"

Poor Nigel! He was in such desperate earnest; while Ethel, through her very delight at the return of her old friend, was brimming over with fun.

"I won't venture to say that! Anybody might come too often, perhaps. I'm a desperately busy person, and never have a moment to spare. But of course you'll pay us a polite call now and then?"

"Yes," Nigel answered seriously.

"And if I'm out, you can leave your card."

"Yes."

"A month or six weeks later somebody is sure to find time to return your call."

"Yes," was all Nigel could say. He knew that it was utterly absurd to take this bantering for anything beyond banter; but how could he help it?

Then a moment's pause, and Ethel looked at the clock.

"Nigel, I don't want to seem unkind," she said; "but, do you know, I really almost think you ought not to stay any longer—if you haven't seen your home-people yet."

This finished Nigel off! Ethel wished him to go! Ethel thought him wrong to have come! His face did not fall into a vexed or doleful set, but it grew exceedingly grave, and all sparkle was gone. He did not question her judgment. Of course she was right, entirely right; and all along he had known himself to be acting with no great wisdom. Still he did feel acutely that if the meeting with him had been to Ethel what the meeting with Ethel was to him, she could not so cheerfully have proposed to shorten the interview.

Could she not? That was the question!

Nigel had no doubt at all about the impossibility. A grey cloud had swept over his sky, blotting out his hopes. Yet he acted at once upon her suggestion, for if Ethel wished him to go, nothing else could keep him.

"Yes, certainly—good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.

"You don't mind my saying it? I'm only thinking of your mother."

Oh no; he did not mind, if "minding" meant being angry. He could honestly reply with a "No." Ethel was "only thinking" of his mother, and he had been "only thinking" of Ethel. That made the difference.

"No, you are right; I ought not to have forgotten," he said vaguely, though he had not quite forgotten; and in another minute he was walking swiftly homewards through the streets.

But how different everything looked! The shadow which had fallen upon himself seemed to envelop the whole town.

It was late when Nigel reached the Grange door. He stood outside for a moment, lost in thought; his hand upon the bell, but not pulling it. The deep tones of St. Stephen's clock were booming out ten strokes in slow succession, and the bass notes of the Grange hall clock seemed trying to overtake church time.

Nigel heard both without heeding. "What would they say at home?" pressed now as a question of importance, though it had not seemed important when he was with Ethel. Then he had no need to ring, for Daisy flung the door open, and, as the French would say, "precipitated herself" upon him.

"Nigel! O Nigel, I knew it was you! You dearest of old fellows! It's delicious to have you back! But why didn't you come straight from the station? What have you been doing all this time? Father has gone to bed, and mother and Anice are in such a way!" The last few words were whispered.

"Did they mind?" asked Nigel. "Why, Daisy, you are a young lady!"—as he kissed the fresh round cheek.

"Don't! I hate to be called a 'young lady.' Nigel; come in—do! What makes you stand and dream? You dear old fellow! It's awfully jolly to see you again. Oh come along—make haste! Fancy waiting to take off your coat after a whole long year away! I was watching at the staircase window, and I saw you in the garden; but nobody else knows."

She pulled him across the hall and into the drawing-room, bursting open the door with a crash of sound which would have seriously disturbed Mr. Browning had he been present.

"Daisy! Daisy!" expostulated Fulvia.

"It's Nigel!" cried Daisy.

"At last!" murmured Anice.

Nigel's first move was to his mother's side. She had risen with a startled look on his entrance, her large eyes wide-open; but the response to his greeting was scarcely what might have been expected. His arms were round her, while her arms hung limply against the velvet dress, and the cheek which she offered to him was cold and white.

"Mother, you are not well!" he exclaimed when—the short round of brotherly kisses over—he came to her again.

Fulvia took stand as a sister in the household. She had wondered a little, privately, whether after this long break he would greet her precisely as in their boy and girl days; but it seemed that the idea of a change had never occurred to him.

"I am sure you are not well," repeated Nigel.

"Mother has been so worried waiting for you."

It was Anice who said this. Nobody but tactless Anice, not even the impulsive Daisy, would have said the words. Indignant fire shot from Fulvia's eyes; and Nigel stood looking down upon his mother's face, beautiful even when fixed and colourless, with an air grieved, and yet absent. He could not shake off the cloud which he had carried away from the Rectory.

"I am sorry to have worried you," he said. "Pollard was quick, and I have been longer than I meant."

"You found the train after all," Fulvia observed.

"Yes, at the last moment."

"How about meals? Have you had anything to eat?"

"Yes, thanks; as much as I want."

"You are sure?" his mother said in her low voice. She had scarcely spoken hitherto.

"Quite."

He drew a chair near to Mrs. Browning and sat down, holding still the hand which he had taken a second time.

She was dearly beloved by all her children, and by none more than by Nigel; so dearly that they could scarcely see a fault in her. The exacting nature of her love for them, above all for her only son, did imply a fault somewhere, only they could not see it. If Nigel saw, he would not acknowledge the fact to others; and if Fulvia saw, she would not acknowledge it even to herself. At least, she had not done so hitherto.

"It was mother!" they all said. And "mother" had ever been in that household the embodiment of all that was lovely and lovable. If something of delusion existed, the very delusion was beautiful. And if Mrs. Browning had her faults—as who has not?—she was the best of wives, the most devoted of mothers, the fairest and sweetest of women. Nobody could see her and not admire; nobody could know her and not love.

There was a curious constraint upon them all this evening; not least upon Nigel, and this perplexed Fulvia. Mrs. Browning's look she understood well; too well! Had any one except Nigel been in question, Fulvia would have been the first to spring up in defence of the "madre's" sensitiveness. The grieved curve of those gentle lips made her very heart ache; and in her heart Fulvia counted that Nigel had done wrongly, for it was a household axiom, without an allowed exception, that nobody might ever do or say aught which should distress the beloved "madre." But how could she blame him just returned from a long year of absence?

She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched, as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew her hand away, and the movement was not noticed.

"What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?"

"Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking. Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?"

"No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he, Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream, and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered, Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome."

"Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a lesson."

"Do, please! I like lessons!"

Nigel laughed, but he did not seem inclined to carry out his threat by active measures. "How has my father been lately?" he asked next. "Not well to-day?"

"Very far from it," Mrs. Browning murmured.

"Nothing definitely wrong?"

"Yes; weakness and depression; and the old pain about the heart, worse than it used to be. He will not have advice; says it is only neuralgia, and nothing can be done. But he ought to consult a London physician. One never can be sure. I have tried in vain to persuade him."

"Perhaps he will listen to me. And you, too—you are not just as you ought to be," Nigel said affectionately.

"I! Oh, that is nothing. I never expect to feel strong."

Then Anice's voice was heard again. "But, Nigel, what can have made you so late? Why didn't you come straight from the station?"

"Anice is a self-appointed Inquisitress-General," interposed Fulvia. "Did you meet anybody by the way?"

"I nearly ran down Mr. Carden-Cox."

"He wouldn't forgive anybody else; but you are a privileged person—you may do what you like. Was he much delighted?" asked Fulvia, while Anice could be heard complaining—"I don't see why you should call me that. I don't see why Nigel shouldn't tell us."

"If he was, he showed it in characteristic style," said Nigel.

"Where did you see him?"

"In George Street."

"George Street! But what could have taken you there?" exclaimed Anice. "Didn't you come up the steps?"

"Inquisitress," whispered Fulvia simultaneously with Nigel's—

"No."

"But why?"

"Really, Anice; if he had a fancy to go round, I don't see that it is our business."

"No—only—after a whole year away, I should have thought he would have chosen the quickest way home."

"Would, could, might, and ought are often mistaken," asserted Fulvia.

"Fulvia is right. I had a fancy to go round," said Nigel, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to say no more. But an explanation was expected; his call at the Rectory was sure to become known; he disliked needless mysteries, and his habitual openness won the day. With scarcely a break, he went on—"A fancy to look at old haunts by gaslight. I walked some distance."

"Which way?" asked the persistent Anice.

"By Church Square."

"To the Elveys'?" Mrs. Browning bit her lip nervously.

"Not intending to see them, mother. It was as I say—a fancy to take a look. I fully meant to be here as soon as Pollard; but I met Mr. Elvey, and he persuaded me to go in for five minutes."

Fulvia's brows were knitted, yet she laughed. "I don't see why you should not. The Elveys always were great cronies of yours."

"No—only—one would have thought," murmured Anice. "Yes, of course they are old friends. Only—to put them before us—"

"You goose!" exclaimed Fulvia angrily. "As if there were any putting before or behind in the question! I don't see, for my part, how Nigel could well help going in, when Mr. Elvey met him. How can you be so absurd!"

Anice's eyes filled with ready tears, and she gazed dolorously on the carpet; yet distressed as she might be at Fulvia's blame, her distress did not prevent a renewed faint mutter of—"Before his mother and sisters!"

Nigel took the matter into his own hands. He looked straight at Anice, speaking with a readiness and decision which impressed them all. They knew from that moment that the brother who had gone away a boy had come back a man.

"You are unjust, Anice. I have told you that I had no idea of calling at the Rectory. Surely that is enough. Why must you make a mountain of a molehill?"

Anice sighed plaintively, as if to declare that she was silenced but not convinced; and Mrs. Browning said nothing.

"Do you think my father would like to see me now?" Nigel asked.

[CHAPTER IV]

FULVIA'S RESOLVE

"Be thou still!
Vainly all thy words are spoken;
Till the word of God hath broken
Life's dark mysteries—good or ill—
Be thou still!"—Shadow of the Rock.

THIS caused a move. Nigel vanished, not to return for some time, and when he did, Fulvia thought he looked anxious. But nothing was said, and nobody asked what he thought of Mr. Browning.

Prayers over, the younger girls retired, and Mrs. Browning prepared to follow. Something in the constrained tone of her "Good-night," drew from Nigel an apologetic—"You didn't really mind so much, mother?"

The muscles of her white throat worked visibly, her voice failing when she tried to speak.

Fulvia brought forward a glass of water.

"Take some of this," she said, adding in a whisper, "Don't give way, madre; it will worry him."

The words had less effect than Fulvia intended. Mrs. Browning turned from her, and broke into one grieved utterance—"Nigel, my own boy! Don't leave off loving me!"

"My dear mother! As if that were possible!"

Young men are not perhaps as a rule peculiarly tolerant of needless hysterics; but Nigel was patient, holding her in his strong arms, and trying to soothe the real though unfounded sorrow.

Fulvia would not let the little scene continue. "It was too bad," she murmured, "just after his coming home!" And then she blamed herself for blaming the sweet madre; but none the less she separated the two, insisted on water being taken, laughed, joked, and saw Mrs. Browning off to her room.

"I'll be back directly," she said to Nigel; and in five minutes or less she returned. As she expected, he was in the drawing-room still, standing on the rug, with folded arms and eyes intent.

"Are you very tired?" she asked abruptly, beginning to fold some of the work which lay about. "Tidying up" was a task which somehow always devolved on Fulvia Rolfe. One marked Browning characteristic was disorderliness in small matters; while Fulvia could never endure to see anything left out of its rightful place.

"No, I believe not. It is late," he said, rousing himself again with a manifest effort.

"You have not heard any bad news to-day?"

"Is there bad news to be heard?"

"Not that I'm aware of. You look as if you had something on your mind. That made me ask. But the botherations this evening are enough to account for it—nearly! If only people had a little common-sense, and wouldn't manufacture troubles to order. However, you will not think that nobody is glad to see you back."

Nigel laughed.

"Of course—you know what it is all worth. How did the padre's condition strike you? Was he in bed?"

"No. I can't judge so soon. It seems to me that he ought to have advice."

"If only for the sake of his own peace of mind, not to speak of the madre's. He doesn't look ill, at all events. You thought he did! Odd! I should have said he was the picture of health. Then perhaps you will encourage his going abroad."

Nigel had not heard of the scheme, and she enlightened him.

"Of course there is no real difficulty—except the expense. Somehow, padre is always and for ever talking now about expenses—why, I can't imagine. And except also for family traditions connected with twenty-first birthdays. We made such a fuss about yours before you left, that the girls have had it in their heads ever since to make a fuss about mine."

"Heiresses usually expect something of a stir on those occasions."

"Do they? I am not sure that I care. Yes; perhaps I do. I should like to give a big dinner to the poor, and to have all our friends here as well. We have talked it over many a time. But whether padre would stand the excitement—! Well, December is nearly a month away still. Nigel, do you know at all the amount that is to come to me? I have never been told definitely. Padre hates business talk."

"About forty thousand, I believe."

"So much! I thought it was twenty or thirty thousand."

"It was to be as much as forty by this time, certainly,—by the time you are of age."

"I believe I heard—part was to accumulate at compound interest. But padre was to use some of the interest."

"Yes; through your minority. That was the arrangement made by your father."

"Then my coming of age will be a loss to him. Is that why he dislikes any mention of it?"

"I hope not!"

"Why? People don't like losing part of the income they are accustomed to. But of course I shall let him have any amount still that he wants, only keeping enough for my own clothes. What do I want with more?"

"When you set up a separate establishment—"

"Nonsense. As if—"

"At all events, don't pledge yourself. Promise nothing till you see your way."

She was conscious of his new manliness, of the change from boy to man. He was only a year older than herself; and twelve months earlier the difference had seemed to be on the other side. Now he had outstripped her; and with a sense of pleasure she knew that she might begin to look up to him, to appeal to his judgment. But nobody could have guessed those thoughts to be passing through Fulvia's mind, as she stood near the fire, winding a ball of worsted, while the light fell on her reddish, fluffy hair and plain though piquant face.

"You to advise that?"

"Why not?"

"I thought—well, you might yourselves be the losers. Why should I not hand it all over to padre as it comes in? I don't know what on earth to do with such a lot of money."

"You can't hand over the responsibility."

"No, perhaps not. I wish one could transfer responsibilities sometimes; but I don't see after all why one should not—in a sense. I mean, that might be the right use for the money; and then the question of spending would come upon padre."

She swept up some remnants of patchwork, Daisy's leavings, from a side-table, put straight a few books, closed the open piano, and came back to the rug. Nigel's face had fallen again into a thoughtful set. Fulvia, gave him a good look unobserved, for he was gazing into the fire.

"I see you haven't lost your old trick of day-dreams. Has anything teased you at the Rectory? Ethel—did you see Ethel?"

Fulvia could not have told what made her ask the question. She had never thought of Ethel in connection with Nigel. Malcolm Elvey was Nigel's particular friend, and it followed as a matter of course that Nigel should see much of all the Elvey family. But Ethel—why, Ethel was merely a bright, useful girl, on frank and easy terms with Nigel. The very intimacy between the two had always been so simple and natural, so little talked about by either, as almost to exclude from the minds of lookers-on a thought of anything beyond. Fulvia was not, and never had been, greatly in love with the Elveys as a family. She liked Mr. Elvey, but not Mrs. Elvey; and she did not care for Ethel. Her first utterance of the name on this occasion was involuntary. Something in Nigel's face arrested her attention, however, and she at once asked, "Did you see Ethel?"

"Yes."

"Was she glad to have you back?"

"I did not ask her."

"She might have shown it without being asked."

Fulvia's eyes could equally well look soft and kind, or hard and cold. The latter expression came into them now.

"I had a pleasant welcome, of course."

"From Ethel?"

"Yes, from Ethel."

"But not all that you expected?"

"Yes—"

"Then what did Ethel say or do?"

Nigel had reached his utmost limit of endurance for one evening.

"Somebody else seems taking up with the inquisitorial line now," he said, not so lightly as he wished.

"Are you going to bed?"

She gave him a searching glance, then held out her hand, keeping her head well back.

"Good-night," came abruptly. "So Ethel does stand first, as Anice said,—before mother and sisters!"

"If you wish to make mischief—" began Nigel.

"I'm not going to make mischief. Don't you know me better? Such things have to be, of course; and I always find them out before anybody else. You are getting to the correct age for the epidemic; but you may trust me not to speak. I'm not anxious to break the madre's heart sooner than need be. I don't mean that she would object to Ethel more than to anybody else—particularly—so you need not look at me like that. It's the fact of anybody that will be the rub; and of course you can't be expected to live a life of celibacy on her account. Ethel is a nice enough girl—at least, I suppose so. I never feel that I know her; but that may be my own fault. However, it is time we should both be in bed, so good-night."

She allowed no opportunity for another brotherly salutation, but retreated with a mocking smile. "Go and dream of Ethel; only don't look doleful," she said. Then she mounted deliberately the shallow oak stairs, warbling a ditty by the way till her room was reached, and the door was locked. Warbling ceased when she found herself alone.

Fulvia turned on the gas jet over the dressing-table and pulled out a supply of hairpins, letting down her hair. It rippled over her shoulders, reaching her waist, and sparkling where the light touched it. Fulvia stood gazing at her own reflection with folded arms, bare below the elbows.

"No; I am not beautiful—not even pretty," she murmured. "But is Ethel?"

Another pause, during which she gazed steadily.

"So that is to be it—after all these years! I would have done anything—given anything—for him. Forty thousand!—That is nothing where one loves. He did not know why I was glad to hear that it was so much—for his sake, not mine. Little thinking then—and only a minute later—But Ethel has nothing to give him. She can mend his glove—laugh at him, perhaps, as I have heard her do. I could not laugh at Nigel—" forgetting that she had just done so. "At anybody else—not Nigel. Will Ethel understand him? Does anybody fully—except—? Oh, I think I could have made him happy!"

Then the consciousness swept over her of what she was saying, of what she was allowing to herself, and with it came a rush of angry blood, suffusing her whole face. She turned sharply away, and walked to and fro, her hands locked together.

"Shame! Nonsense! Rubbish! That I should be the first to think—I!—And he, of course, has never given a thought to me! Why should he? Why should I expect it? Nigel will never marry for money! Should I like him if he could? . . . And if I have not seen, I might have seen. He and Ethel! Why, it has been so for years! He would do for her years ago what he would not do for me. I never could think why, but I know now. If I had not been infatuated, I should have seen all along. Does the madre see? Is that why she minded so much? . . . No, I don't love Ethel. I don't care for her. I don't half like her. She rubs me up the wrong way, somehow. Has it been this? . . . Poor madre! Every one will pity her, and nobody will pity me! Hush—I will not have that come up! Unwomanly!—Contemptible—to give one's love where it is not wanted." Fulvia stamped her foot. "Nobody shall ever guess my folly! Anything rather than betray myself! Nigel—how Nigel would despise me, if he knew! And how I despise myself!"

She stood again before the glass, noting the flush which remained.

"No wonder; I may well be ashamed. It is too weak—too foolish! But I will hide it! Stamp it down! Hold up my head!" And she flung back her abundant hair with a proud gesture. "If love can die, mine shall be killed. Nobody shall see! Nobody shall know! I see how!—I'll laugh at Nigel—tease him—make myself as disagreeable as I can! . . . No, no, that might be read. And why must I pain him? He will have worries enough among them all. No, no, I'll follow a nobler line—more womanly. That at least remains. If I cannot be happy, he may be. I'll give him sympathy, and help it forward. I'll smooth things down for him, as I know I can—more than any other human being. I shall not be misunderstood then—shall not be understood, I mean! What nonsense I am talking! . . . Yes, that will do! He shall think I am glad—delighted. He shall owe some of his happiness to me. And she—I will try to love Ethel—will try to make her see better what Nigel is. And if he is happy—really happy—should I not be happy too, knowing it? But, oh—"

One moment Fulvia stood upright, smiling triumphantly at her own reflection. The next, an irresistible stab came, and tears burst forth in a deluge. She dropped to the ground, rather than threw herself down, hid her face upon those same folded arms now laid against a chair, and shook with smothered weeping, all the more intense because smothered.

Fulvia had never cried easily. From earliest childhood it had taken a great deal to bring tears—unlike Anice, who had a supply always ready to hand for the slightest call. But with Fulvia, when once the flow began, it was as difficult to check as it had been difficult to start. She could weep on to an almost indefinite extent; until, indeed, bodily exhaustion should put an end to the paroxysm.

Fulvia was strong, however, and bodily exhaustion was long in coming. Again and again she strove to master herself, almost with success; again and again a return wave mastered her. From the moment that she collapsed, something not far from two hours passed before she could lift her head. When she again stood before the glass she had grown sick with agitation. Her face was blistered; and the eyes had almost vanished beneath their swollen lids.

"This must be the last time," she said aloud, resolutely. "I will not give way again."

But what if she were overcome by some sudden strain? A new dread of her own weakness assailed Fulvia, who had never felt herself weak before.

"It shall not be!" she muttered. "I will not give way! I will not! Any woman can be strong who chooses. I will be strong! I will not betray myself—whatever happens."

She began at length to make ready for going to bed, in a mechanical fashion, plaiting loosely her long hair to keep it out of her eyes, noting the lateness of the hour. Not far from two o'clock!

"What would the madre think of me? But they shall not know. I must look like myself to-morrow. If only I can sleep!"

Late though it was, she read a few verses from her Bible; a perfunctory matter commonly; and not less so now than usual. She could not have told five minutes afterwards what she had read.

Then she knelt down, leaning against the back of a chair, with a feeling of utter weariness. What did it matter whether she prayed or not? What did anything matter? Fulvia had prayed seldom hitherto—really prayed. There had been no especial connection between her morning and evening "saying" of prayers, and the everyday life lived between.

Now, as usual, she only murmured a few unmeaning phrases, and when she rose no help had come, for she had not sought it. In her trouble she turned to self only, resting on her own strength of will. Fulvia was a girl of steady principle and of noble impulses; but as yet she had never given over the guidance of her barque to the hand of the Master-Pilot. There was danger of its being swept to and fro out of the right course, by wind and wave, against her will.

"Yes, that will do," she said, before putting out her light. "Nigel shall be happy, at all events. I always have said that if one really cares for another, one can wish nothing so much as his happiness. Well, I have to prove it now. Nobody shall ever guess! That has to be crushed down—crushed!" And she clenched her teeth. "I will be mistress of myself. And if I have any power to smooth things for him and Ethel, I will do it."

The resolution was praiseworthy; but would she have strength to carry it out?

[CHAPTER V]

IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

"Rather, steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part,
To watch with firm unshrinking eye
Thy darling visions as they die,
Till all bright hopes and hues of day
Have faded into twilight grey."—Christian Year.

"WHAT is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?" asked Daisy next morning.

Breakfast—supposed to begin at nine, seldom in reality before half-past—was nearly over. People had dropped in at intervals till all were present except Mr. Browning. Fulvia, for a marvel, had been one of the last instead of the first to appear, and she had to endure some banter from Daisy, replying thereto with spirit.

It had seemed to Fulvia before coming downstairs that her pale cheeks, and the dark shades under her eyes, must surely be remarked upon. But nobody seemed to see anything unusual. Fulvia had always been strong, and was almost always well. Nobody expected her to be otherwise, and people in general are not, observant. Mrs. Browning was absorbed in thought about her husband, and the girls were absorbed in attentions to Nigel, while Nigel laughed and joked with them, and Fulvia knew that his mind was away at the Rectory. She could see "Ethel" written on every line of his face; and she knew that he was not noticing her at all.

In one sense it might be a relief that none should observe more keenly, for the part she had to act became easier thereby.

Yet human nature is curiously "mixed" in its ways, always wanting what it does not possess. Fulvia missed the very solicitude which she most desired to avoid. It seemed hard that nobody should offer a word of kindness; that not a human being should care to hear how she had lain awake the whole night. For what? That none might learn; and if inquiries had come, Fulvia must have repelled them; but since they did not come, she craved a sympathising word. The sick sense of weariness was on her still; long hours of tossing to and fro had not meant rest; and breakfast was a mere sham. She could eat nothing; but nobody saw. Fulvia might do as she liked so long as other people's needs were attended to.

So she told herself bitterly while pouring out unlimited cups of tea behind the silver urn. Breakfast was always a lengthy meal at the Grange. Everybody waited for everybody else, since all were expected to be present at family prayers afterwards. Fulvia had wandered away into a little dreamland of her own when she was recalled by Daisy's question—

"What is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?"

"Varieties," Nigel answered.

"Mother wants you to go and see Mr. Carden-Cox." This was Anice's remark. If Anice desired a thing herself she was sure to quote Mrs. Browning.

"I shall have to see Mr. Carden-Cox soon, of course."

"Nigel, if you go this morning, I wish you'd take me," cried Daisy. "His study is so delicious, and he always gives one something nice."

"To eat?"

"No—nonsense. A book, or a picture, or something."

"He is said to spoil children."

"Well—and I'm a child—not a young lady! Do take me."

"Nonsense, Daisy. Nigel can't be saddled with a pair of sisters all day long," interposed Fulvia, foreseeing a like request from Anice.

"You don't call me a 'pair,' do you? Besides, what's the harm? Nigel has been more than a year away, and we do want to see something of him. You don't care, of course. He isn't your brother," pursued Daisy, unconscious of giving pain. "Nigel has nothing to do except amuse himself. Nobody will expect to see him. The Elveys won't, because he has been there; and other people don't matter, except Mr. Carden-Cox."

"Nigel has not seen Malcolm yet."

Nigel looked up at Fulvia in gratitude; and he did not at once look away. His eyes studied her gravely for two or three seconds; and Fulvia knew at once that she might have, but must not allow, the word of sympathy for which she had been craving.

"Malcolm—no. But—" Daisy began.

"You know that he is Curate at St. Peter's now, of course," Fulvia said cheerfully, smiling at Nigel.

His eyes were on her still, in a kind gaze—exactly the frank concerned gaze which a brother might bestow on a sister, and, as she knew, not at all the kind of gaze that he would have bestowed upon Ethel under like circumstances. But the kindness was marked; and Fulvia found herself tingling with a rush of feeling. She saw that he was about to speak. This would never do. She was lifting a full breakfast-cup to pass across the table, and the next moment it had dropped from her hand, causing a crash of broken china, and deluging the white tablecloth. So neatly was the thing done that even Nigel did not at once suspect its non-accidental nature.

"How stupid of me! I must be demented!" exclaimed Fulvia, starting up. "And I have always prided myself on never letting anything fall. I shall begin to think my fingers are growing buttery at last." She rang the bell, and came back to stand over the swamped table, laughing. "What a horrible mess! I hope nobody wants any more tea, for the teapot is pretty well emptied. Oh, we were just speaking about Malcolm. You know that he is going to live at home for a time, don't you?"

Nigel seemed to be lost in a brown study. "Yes—the last letters from home told me," he said, when a pause drew his attention to the question. "I don't see why he should not. St. Peter's is near to St. Stephen's."

But his eyes went again to Fulvia inquiringly.

"The best thing in the world for them all, I should say," she remarked in a light tone. "Ethel seemed delighted with the plan. There was talk of lodgings for him at first, I believe, but that is given up—naturally. By-the-bye, I wonder if you thought Ethel improved in looks. Mr. Carden-Cox declares she has grown quite pretty. I never do think her that, but she has pretty manners—and after all, it is a matter of opinion. Almost everybody is thought handsome by somebody. However, you could hardly tell in a few minutes. Of course you will be going there again to-day, to see Malcolm."

Mrs. Browning did not like this, neither did Anice, and Daisy's brown eyes were round as saucers. Fulvia could see the faces of all three, without looking at any of them; her senses being doubly acute this morning. The last words had been hard to utter smilingly, and again she was aware of Nigel's attention. It was almost more than she could bear, meaning to her so much, yet in itself so little. The tingling sensation came back, and with it a choking in her throat. She had just power to say—

"Well, if you all like to sit round an ocean of spilt tea, pray do! It is too damp an outlook for my taste. Simms doesn't seem inclined to appear, so perhaps—And there is tea all down my dress! What a bother! It will be ruined if I am not quick. I must see to it at once."

Then she was gone, passing swiftly upstairs to her own room, and Nigel asked as the door closed, "What is the matter with Fulvia?"

"Fulvia! Why, Nigel—what should be the matter? Nothing is, of course. Nothing is ever the matter with Fulvia," declared Daisy. "Why should you think anything was? She has only made a fine mess."

"She doesn't seem to be herself."

"I don't think anything is wrong," said Anice.

Nigel made no answer, but he resolved to use his own eyesight. Mrs. Browning could think of nobody except her husband; and Daisy was a mere child; and Anice, like many quasi-invalids, objected to others besides herself being counted deserving of attention on the score of health. Her father's condition she had to put up with; but Fulvia and Daisy were always to be strong, and she was always to be the one cared for. In fact, Anice liked a monopoly of delicate health.

"Fulvia is not as she used to be," Nigel said to himself; and though she came to prayers in a few minutes, wearing an extra cheerful air, he did not alter his opinion. If she were not unwell, she was in trouble. He could not resolve which it might be.

Mr. Carden-Cox sat in his study, late that afternoon, before a blazing fire, lost in cogitation.

It was a comfortable room, containing everything that might be desired by a bachelor of moderate means. Nobody counted Mr. Carden-Cox wealthy, but everybody knew that he had enough to "get on upon."

In his mode of living he was neither lavish nor stingy. He gave away a good deal; but always after his own fashion—which means that he refused everybody's requests for money, yet did a good many unknown kindnesses. He was an eccentric man; something of an enigma to people generally. Nobody could ever guess beforehand, with certainty, what Mr. Carden-Cox would do, or how he would do it.

He had never been married. This fact everybody knew, while few could tell the wherefore. Perhaps two or three, among his acquaintances, looking back nearly a quarter of a century, might speak of the time when Arthur Carden-Cox, then close upon forty in age, had showed signs of being "touched" by the rare charms of that wonderfully fair young creature, Clemence Duncan. But few had thought much of it. All men who came within her range were fascinated, without effort on her part. The question was not, whether she would marry Albert Browning or Arthur Carden-Cox, but upon which among a dozen ardent suitors her choice would fall. Arthur Carden-Cox had not seemed by any means the most ardent; and when Clemence Duncan became Mrs. Browning, others were more pitied.

However, those others had comforted themselves, sooner or later recovering; and all of them, now living, were middle-aged men, married and with families. Arthur Carden-Cox alone had made no further effort to find a wife. He had been long and late falling in love; and once in he could not easily fall out again.

Perhaps Mrs. Browning guessed what the true cause might be of his lonely life. But she never spoke of it. If he had proposed to her, she told the fact to no one. Other people counted him only "an odd old bachelor"; and this explained everything.

It was inevitable that he should be intimate at the Grange, since, though not related to the Brownings themselves, he was uncle to Mr. Browning's ward, Fulvia Rolfe.

Fulvia's mother had been half-sister to Arthur Carden-Cox; and Fulvia's father, John Rolfe, had been an old and intimate friend of Mr. Browning. John Rolfe and Arthur Carden-Cox had not been on very happy terms, owing to a quarrel over the marriage settlements of John's wife: but John Rolfe had reposed the most unbounded confidence in Albert Browning. When Rolfe died, shortly after the death of his wife, he was found to have appointed Albert Browning his sole executor, sole guardian of his infant child, sole trustee of the fortune which was to be hers.

A strange thing to do, many said; and Mr. Carden-Cox doubtless felt himself slighted. Albert Browning at first seemed to shrink from the responsibility, even though it meant advantage to himself, since by the terms of the will, he was expressly allowed to use a certain share of the interest, until Fulvia should be of age. He accepted the charge, however; and he and his young wife adopted the little Fulvia as their own, Thenceforth she grew up like one of the Browning family, taking her stand as Nigel's companion, and as the eldest of his sisters. She could recall no other home.

Mr. Cardon-Cox's position at the Grange was curious, like himself. Sometimes he was in and out every day; sometimes he would not go near the house for weeks together. To a certain extent he was a privileged being there, able to do and say what he chose; yet he never seemed entirely at his ease; and he and Mr. Browning were by no means on affectionate terms. Each civilly slighted the other, though they never quarrelled. Towards Mrs. Browning, Mr. Carden-Cox was ceremoniously polite. He could not to this day quite forgive her for having preferred somebody else to himself; nevertheless they were good friends.

With the three girls he was not unlike a fairy godfather, treating them to divers gifts and pleasures, making no great distinctions between the three, though Fulvia was his niece, and would doubtless inherit whatever he possessed. If he had a special pet, that pet seemed to be Daisy.

The girls were, however, secondary in his estimation. Nigel was the real delight of the old man's heart.

For at sixty-three Mr. Carden-Cox was already an old man; older in divers respects than many a vigorous contemporary of seventy-five.

His cogitations that afternoon were about Nigel. As he sat, nursing one leg over the other, his hands clasped round the upper knee, his small figure bent forward, his features wrapt in gravity, he thought only of Nigel. Much of the love which Mr. Carden-Cox had once lavished upon Nigel's mother was lavished now upon Nigel; but Nigel did not guess this, or suppose himself to be more than "rather a favourite." As few had divined the strength of Arthur Carden-Cox's devotion in past days, so few divined it now. He was not at all in the habit of wearing his heart upon his sleeve, for anybody to peek at. There were plenty of daws in Newton Bury, ready to perform that office, if he would have allowed them.

It was a disappointment that Nigel had not yet come. All day Mr. Carden-Cox had stayed in for the chance—or, as he viewed it, for the certainty—of a call. "What could the boy be about?" he asked repeatedly, as the hours went by; and two ruts deepened in his forehead.

Somebody tapped, and the door opened, Mr. Carden-Cox looking up sharply, secure of Nigel; but "Dr. Duncan" was announced instead.

Dr. James Duncan, first cousin to Mrs. Browning, and leading medical man in Newton Bury, knew himself to be at the moment unwelcome; and he bore the knowledge cheerfully. He understood Mr. Carden-Cox too well, besides being too large-hearted a man, to take offence lightly. That sort of thing—"that sort of nonsense," he would have called it—he left to smaller natures.

Though younger than Clemence Duncan, James Duncan had once upon a time been in the ranks of her admirers. Like Arthur Carden-Cox, he had found Albert Browning preferred to himself. Unlike Arthur Carden-Cox, he had wisely consoled himself in later years with somebody else.

Mr. Carden-Cox, disgusted with Nigel's non-appearance, would not rise, and Dr. Duncan did not sit down. He stood upon the rug, hat in hand, opposite the small man in the easy-chair; himself of good medium height, and well made, though disposed to thinness. He had a frank English face, not critically handsome, but very like that of Nigel. Placed side by side, the two might have passed for father and son.

"Well?" growled Mr. Carden-Cox.

"Have I interrupted anything of importance?" asked Dr. Duncan, in a voice which matched his face—frank and well-modulated.

"No, no. It doesn't matter. I'm only on the lookout for that young fellow. By-the-bye, have you seen him yet?" and Mr. Carden-Cox grew lively. "Don't know who I mean! oh? Haven't you heard he is come? Why, your former patient, of course—Nigel. You won't have much to say to him now in that capacity. He's transmogrified. Looks ten times the man I ever expected."

"I'm glad to hear it—very glad. I had hopes."

"Yes; you were right after all, I didn't half believe in the scheme before he went, but you were right. And you've not seem him?"

"No. Clemente told me he was expected soon—which day I had forgotten. I have been rather overwhelmed this week."

"Seen nobody but a lot of sick folk, I suppose. That's the way with you doctors. Horribly dull life. But I say, Duncan, there's some mistake. I didn't send for you. It's a blunder. I'm all right—never felt better—don't need any physic—haven't an ache or a pain."

The other smiled. He had a pleasant smile, like Nigel's—hardly so brilliant, but also not so evanescent. The play of it lingered longer round his lips.

"No; I came for a word with you about somebody's health. Not your own."

"Nigel, to wit?"

"I have not seen Nigel. You say he is all right."

"Looked so, when I saw him in the dark—by lamplight, I mean. Well, what's wrong? Some old woman wanting a red cloak to cure 'rheumatiz'?"

"Not at this moment."

"An old man then?"

"Browning is not exactly old."

"Browning! Hey! Why, what's wrong there?"

"I can say nothing in my medical capacity. Put that out of sight, if you please."

"Can't, man, unless you put yourself out of sight."

"I am speaking simply as their relative—as Clemence's cousin."

"Ay? Well, what about him—speaking as an ordinary individual, not as a doctor?"

"He ought to consult a London physician."

"Why not consult you?"

"We have put that possibility aside. He has not asked my advice, and I cannot thrust it upon him."

"Rubbish!" muttered Mr. Carden-Cox.

Dr. Duncan continuing, unchecked—

"But advice he ought to have. If he would rather not come to me, let him go to London by all means."

"Why should he not go to you?"

"Can't say! The fact is patent."

"And you don't think him in good health? Why, I should have said—Why, he came in here last week, looking positively robust. Fads and fancies enough, I dare say, but as for being ill—"

"Looks are deceptive sometimes."

"Except to the initiated, I suppose. You don't mean that anything is seriously wrong?"

"I can't speak with authority. I have not examined the case. All I say is—as anybody might say—that he ought not to go on without advice."

"And if he does?"

Dr. Duncan was silent.

"But I say, now—look here! What do you expect me to do? Why don't you speak to Mrs. Browning?"

"Because, if she could not persuade him, I should have alarmed her to no purpose. You have influence with them."

"Perhaps—yes."

"Your opinion will not frighten her as mine would—even while they may act upon it."

"I told Browning last week that he seemed in splendid condition. Am I to eat my own words so soon?"—ruefully.

"What did he say?"

"Oh, sighed, and declared he 'suffered' a good deal, couldn't sleep, and so forth! All a case of masculine nerves, I thought. What! Going already?"

"I must! I'll leave the matter with you."

"But I say—stop!—what about this notion of going abroad? I believe the girls don't know it yet. Browning broached it to me. Why, he has always hated travelling."

"He should consult a physician before deciding."

"What do you suppose to be the matter with him?"

Dr. Duncan buttoned his glove.

"Eh what's wrong with the man?"

"I can say nothing definite. He is not as he should be. Good-bye."

"But, hallo—I say!" And Mr. Carden-Cox sprang up. "Am I to quote you?"

Dr. Duncan looked down from his superior height, smiling again. "No," he said, and vanished.

"Knew he meant that," growled Mr. Carden-Cox, dropping back into the easy-chair. "Extraordinary! Browning ill! Browning! I should have said he was as jolly and well-to-do a man as any alive. But Duncan doesn't speak without reason. Well, I must obey orders, I suppose. What next? Hey? Yes—come in! Nigel this time?"

The two shook hands quietly, and fell into a talk. Nobody would have guessed, looking on, how long they had been apart, nor how much the reunion meant to the elder man.

Nigel's brightness of manner was a little forced. He had been again to the Rectory, and both Malcolm and Ethel were out. Only Mrs. Elvey had received him; and Mrs. Elvey was not a reviving person.

[CHAPTER VI]

DRAGGING HOURS

"Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day."
—SHAKESPEARE.

"WHAT has become of Nigel?"

It seemed to Fulvia that the world never would stop tormenting her with this question. First, Daisy popped in to put it; then Mr. Browning, with heavy step and dejected mien, did the same; afterward, Anice appeared, loitered about, and discussed its bearings; lastly, Mrs. Browning glided through the doorway, and desired information. When Fulvia counted the catechising at an end, Daisy began over again.

Fulvia was always the person asked; for people had a way of appealing to her rather than to anybody else. She was practical and clear-headed, apt to remember little details which others were apt to forget, and as a rule she did not mind trouble. But this afternoon she did mind. While Anice and Daisy were on the move, unable to settle down in the excitement of Nigel's return, Fulvia never stirred from the easy-chair where after lunch she had taken refuge. Restlessness had had its swing with her through the night-hours, and had been finished off by a long walk in the morning. Now the weather had grown dismal and drizzling, and she sat persistently over her crewel-work.

Usually Fulvia was a rapid and beautiful worker, yet advance to-day seemed slow. While anybody was present, her needle went in and out like clockwork.

"How you can!" Daisy exclaimed, "and Nigel only just come back?"

Fulvia smiled, and worked on. But when alone, she dropped the work on her knee, holding it in readiness for another start so soon as the door-handle should turn, and laid her head against the chair-back for indulgence in a dream. Violent weeping always left Fulvia in a state of reactionary inertia. She had not cried for—how many years was it? She could recall the last time, and the long stupid exhaustion following. That had been a case of childish naughtiness; but Mrs. Browning had petted and cared for her. Nobody thought of petting as needed now.

The afternoon was wearing away. Fulvia had never before known so long a stretch of night and day. It seemed more like twenty-four weeks than twenty-four hours since yesterday's light chatting between herself and the other girls about Nigel's return.

Was the whole of life to be dragged through in the same fashion? Fulvia asked this wearily, forgetting that the sharpest pain does in time lose something of its acuteness. She had known little hitherto of any pain; and endurance is not easy. Fulvia felt like a tired-out child; as if it would have been the greatest comfort to lay her head on somebody's knee, and have another good cry.

Nobody knew, of course, how tears were threatening the whole day. That had been the way with Fulvia from her cradle. She might pass through a year, or any number of years, without the smallest breakdown—always bright and even-spirited; but if once the sluices were forced open, she had to battle for days to regain her usual standing, and a word might overcome her.

"Fulvia Rolfe does not often cry, but when she does, she goes in for a regular rainy season," an old gentleman had once said.

The last "rainy season" lay so far back, however, that the possibility of its recurrence was forgotten.

Such a "rainy season" was on her now, only nobody supposed the fact—nobody saw anything unusual. The girls could only think of Nigel; and Nigel, at lunch, would only talk and laugh with Daisy, not seeming to notice Fulvia at all. Soon after two he had gone out, and now, at nearly six, he was still absent.

"What has become of Nigel?"

Daisy asked this again, bouncing the door open, banging it to in her childish fashion, and dancing across the room. Daisy's dancing was not sylph-like, and the room vibrated to her steps.

Fulvia could have cried out sharply, "Oh, don't!" but she did not, because Daisy would at once have inquired—"Why?" The fire was blazing, and she took up her work.

"Why don't you have lights? You'll hurt your eyes."

"Simms came, but I sent him away. This looked pleasanter."

"I can't imagine what makes Nigel stay out such a time; can you? Mother is getting into a worry. He couldn't be the whole afternoon with Mr. Carden-Cox, you know, or at the Rectory either. Fulvie, what did make you say that at breakfast-time about his going again to the Rectory?"

"I made myself."

"Well, but why? When you know mother can't bear him to go!"

Fulvia was silent, and Daisy's childish eyes scanned her. They were clever eyes, only undeveloped.

"Fulvie, why does mother dislike the Elveys? I think they are so nice."

"She doesn't."

"Yes, she does."

"No, it is not dislike. You are talking nonsense."

"Well then, she doesn't like Nigel to like them so much."

"Go and get something to do."

"I've done lots—heaps. I don't want to be busy now. Why does mother mind? Is it only because she wants him all to herself? Mother never does like any of us to be too fond of anybody—outside people, I mean. You may just as well answer me, because I can't possibly help seeing things, and I am not a baby."

"I think you are; a creature in long clothes. Daisy, get along, and leave me in peace."

"Why? You're not really working; you are just making believe. I believe you like to sit and think about Nigel's being at home again."

The words stung—how sharply innocent Daisy little dreamed.

"And I believe Nigel's at the Rectory, and you know it."

"No, I don't."

"I don't see why he shouldn't—except for madre. Poor darling madre! I'll never like anybody out of the house, I'm quite determined, except just a moderate little amount. But I suppose Nigel must have friends. Anyhow, he's the dearest old fellow alive—isn't he?"

Fulvia was silent.

"He's grown so jolly and handsome! I do like a big, strong brother; don't you?"

Silence still. Fulvia was pricking her work dreamily with the needle.

"Fulvie, you always used to praise Nigel more than anybody. Why don't you answer?"

"It is unnecessary now. He is able-bodied, and can look to himself."

"How funny you are! Well, Nigel praises you. He told Anice and me, before lunch—after we came in, and you went upstairs—he told us we didn't make half enough of you. And he said—"

Daisy paused to examine the fringe nailed round a small table. Fulvia's heart beat fast.

"How funny! Here's a spot of candle grease. I wonder how it came?"

"He said—what?"

"Oh, about you—what was I telling? I forget now. It is too bad of him to stay away such a time."

"What do you mean by 'not making enough' of me?" demanded Fulvia. She could not resist putting the question.

"Nigel said it, not I. He said a lot more. Oh, he only meant—what was it?—let me see—he only meant you were such a dear, jolly old thing, always doing something for somebody; and he said we let you do too much. Do we? Anice was put out—didn't you see at lunch? That was why she wouldn't eat, and why Nigel and I talked so, for fear mother should notice. Nigel gave us a regular lecture, I can tell you. Anice said you were so strong, it didn't matter; and Nigel said he wasn't so sure about that—only you were unselfish, and never thought of your own wishes—and he said it did matter, because you were not our own sister, and we had no business to make a Cinderella of you. Anice was quite cross. And then Nigel said—No, I wasn't to repeat that. I'm forgetting. He told me not."

"Not to repeat what?"

"Only about what he said—it was about you, so I mustn't. But I really didn't know before how much Nigel cared for you. Somehow, I always thought he liked Ethel best, after mother and Anice and me. I expect Anice was jealous. Well, there's no harm in repeating one thing Nigel said, and that was that he had never seen anybody like you anywhere."

Fulvia could not speak for a moment. A wild hope sprang up, and her heart beat faster, faster, in thick throbs, so hard and loud that she thought Daisy must surely hear. How foolish! How absurd! She, who prided herself on being always equable and composed—she to be palpitating like this at the words of a mere child, which might mean absolutely nothing! And yet—yet—what if she had misunderstood matters the evening before? Could it be possible? Had she made too much of a word, a look? Had Nigel no such feeling for Ethel as she had taken for granted? After all, how little had passed between them! How easily Nigel might have misunderstood her thought, and she might have misread his!

"Anice hates being lectured, you know," Daisy went on. "But I don't mind it—at least, not from some people; not from dear old Nigel. Well, I don't mean to tell you one scrap more, because he said I mustn't. But, really and truly, I never meant to let you do too much. It always seemed natural that you should do things. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Daisy ran away, not waiting for an answer.

And Fulvia sat in a dream, hardly thinking, only letting herself listen to a whisper of hope. What if—after all—? She was trembling with the sudden joy—unnerved—till suddenly Nigel entered the room; and then Fulvia was calm.

"Fulvia going in for blind man's holiday! That is something new."

"Daisy has been here chattering, making me waste my time; quite in despair at your absence."

"I didn't intend to be so long. One can't always help it. Everybody expects to hear everything—" apologetically. "And then—"

"Yes?" Fulvia said, looking up. She noted something of trouble, and asked, "Did you see Ethel and Malcolm?"

"No; only Mrs. Elvey."

"Disappointing for you."

"Yes. Fulvia—"

Now it was coming. Would he confess to her his love for Ethel?—Ask for help? He glanced round at the door to see if anybody might be there to hear. He had something confidential to say evidently. The pause he made occupied a mere fraction of a second, but Fulvia had time for distinct thought and conjecture, and her heart sank.

"Fulvia, have you thought my father ill lately?"

Then the troubled look was not for Ethel. He was only anxious about Mr. Browning, and in his anxiety, he turned to Fulvia. The throbbing came back, all over her, from head to foot; yet it was in her most natural voice that she answered—

"Padre ill! No. He is nervous about himself, and I fancy he has worries."

"Mr. Carden-Cox spoke to me. He seems to have a notion that things are not right."

"Mr. Carden-Cox! Why, he is always telling padre how well he looks."

"That was not his style to-day. He wanted me to insist on Dr. Duncan, or a London opinion."

"Odd! Mr. Carden-Cox isn't generally a weathercock."

"Hush—don't say any more now. Another time! Here comes Daisy."

[CHAPTER VII]

TO GO, OR NOT TO GO

"God counts as nothing that which is most brilliant in the eyes of men. What He would have in us is purity of intention, an ever-ready yielding of our will; and these are more safely, and at the same time more truly, proved in common than in extraordinary matters. Sometimes we care more for a trifle than for some object of importance; and there may be more difficulty in giving up an amusement, than bestowing a large sum in charity."—FÉNÉLON.

THROUGH the lower part of Newton Bury ran a river, much used by the inhabitants. Newton Bury was to some extent a manufacturing town, and manufacturing people are apt to congregate about a stream—not to the increase of its loveliness. But higher up, before coming within sight of wharves or mills, the river was exceedingly pretty, with varied banks, wooded heights at a short distance, and abundant willow growths, diversified by clay strata. Here gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood did a good deal of boating; and young fellows like Nigel were especially addicted to the amusement. As a dreamy boy, Nigel had counted no recreation equal to that of rowing up or down the stream on a summer day, with or without a companion. Some said he preferred the "without" to the "with"; though Nigel himself, while agreeing generally, always made a mental reservation in favour of Ethel.

He was not now especially given to dreaming; but the old taste for boating survived.

Mr. Carden-Cox owned a trim rowing-boat, which it was tacitly understood that Nigel might always use. His garden, a long and narrow slip, "ugly but useful" the owner said, sloped down a steep hillside to the very water's edge, and ended in a small boat-house beside some steps. A good many gentlemen's houses followed this plan with their gardens, thereabouts; but the Grange stood on the next hill, with part of the town between it and the river-side.

A small steam-launch existed in Newton Bury for hiring purposes; and Mr. Carden-Cox, in his delight at his favourite's return, thought of the steam-launch. The second day after Nigel's arrival proved mild and sunny, almost like an April day; certainly not like November. Newton Bury boasted a clear atmosphere, despite its tall chimneys, and a Londoner would scarcely have recognised this as a November day at all, unless by the mistiness of far-off hollows. Even the Newton Bury people said they had seldom seen the like.

"In honour of Nigel!" Mr. Carden-Cox averred, looking out of the window before breakfast; and he immediately determined to "set going something" which might please "the boy." Why not an excursion up the river in the steam-launch?

"Capital! Nothing could be better!" Mr. Carden-Cox rubbed his hands jubilantly; and breakfast had to wait, growing cold, while he despatched a messenger to secure the launch. That settled, he gave sundry orders as to provisions, and wrote a note to the Grange, commanding the presence of "Nigel and all three girls" at an appointed hour. If Mr. and Mrs. Browning would honour him with their company, so much the better. Meanwhile, he desired to see Nigel.

"Hurrah!" Daisy cried, when the note was read aloud; the Grange breakfast being still in process of consumption. Mr. Carden-Cox was on principle an early man.

Nigel started off at once for Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and found that gentleman in a fluster of nervous excitement.

"You see, there was no time to lose," he said, buttonholing the young man with agitated fingers. "Another such day is not to be expected. It's an effort to one of my years; but I dare say I shall not be the worse. I shall put off all responsibility on you. Of course you and the girls will come—eh?—Yes, I thought so. Mr. and Mrs. Browning, if they can—well, you'll see nearer the time. We don't start till a quarter to twelve. Must allow some time for preparations. I thought we would take our lunch soon after twelve, before getting to the prettiest part of the river; and then have early afternoon tea, coming down again. Mind, everybody takes wraps. It's warm—marvellous for November; but the river air is apt to be chilly. Of course we shall be in before dark. How is your father to-day? Seen Duncan yet? No, I supposed not. He never hurries himself. I'm asking Duncan, by-the-bye, but of course he'll not come. And the Elveys."

Nigel's face lighted up.

"Yes, I knew you'd like that. Great chums of yours. I don't dislike young Elvey; and Ethel is a sensible sort of a girl. I sent a note early, and promised to send for an answer. You wouldn't mind being my messenger, perhaps?"

Mind it! Nigel was delighted. He went at railway speed down the hill towards Church Square, now and then exchanging a nod and smile with some old acquaintance, rich or poor. Passing the short posts which admitted foot-passengers into the square, he encountered a young man, half a head shorter than himself, slim and compact, clerical in attire, with a soft wide-awake crushed low over the forehead, a thin, hatchet face, and sharp features. Fast as Nigel walked, the other walked faster still.

"Hallo, Nigel!"

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

That was their British greeting after a year's separation. They were great friends none the less; though not from similarity.

"Coming?" asked Nigel.

"Where?"

"Steam-launch."

"Haven't heard a word of it."

"Mr. Carden-Cox. Excursion up the river for lunch and fun. All of you invited. You must come, old fellow."

Malcolm Elvey was a business-like individual, and his friends learnt brevity in dealing with him.

"What time?"

"Start at a quarter to twelve, and back before dark."

"I don't mind if I do. Yes, I think I can. I've had a racking headache for two days, and that might rid me of it."

"And the rest of you?"

"I wish you may get my father—no hope, I'm afraid. Ethel, yes—you must insist upon that. She has so little pleasure. Most likely the note is there, not opened. I can't go back with you, but you'll find Ethel."

"Mind you are at the bottom of Mr. Carden-Cox's garden—11.40 sharp!"

"All right. I'll come: if nothing prevents."

Nigel went on to the Rectory, and after a moment's hesitation entered by the front door without ringing, as of old. Why not?

Nobody was in the hall; so he went to the dining-room, and found nobody there either. Ethel's workbasket stood open on the table, and a pair of socks with big holes lay beside it, while the little silver thimble had dropped to the floor. Nigel lifted and placed it on the table, then he walked to the rug, and saw upon the mantelpiece a note addressed to "Miss Elvey" in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. But the note had not been opened.

"What a shame! It ought to have been given to her."

Nigel did not realise that the two young Rectory maids, having all the work of the house on their hands, were glad to spare themselves needless runs up and down stairs; indeed, they had instructions so to do. At the Grange maids were plentiful, with scarcely enough work to keep them out of mischief.

Ethel had been upstairs when the note came, so the cook laid it on the mantelpiece. Later she forgot to mention it to Ethel, or to say that an answer would be called for.

"I wonder if she will come," thought Nigel.

He went to the bookcase and stood there gazing. A good many aged volumes of sermons, bound in venerable calf, helped to fill the shelves. No doubt their continued existence was owing mainly to their calf attire; since nobody ever read them. Also many modern specimens of boys' books could be seen, in coats of faded red or blue. Nigel knew these well. He had been a book-devourer in boyhood, and had borrowed every readable volume from his friends.

Ethel did not appear, and he pulled out one or two, smiling at the tremendous boyish adventures depicted in the illustrations, and handling them kindly as old friends.

A plain black volume, pushed half in among the rest, fell to the ground; and a sheet of paper fluttered out. Ethel's handwriting! The heading was "Extracts," and Nigel read what followed without compunction.

"There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow, the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of Eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it." ¹

II.

"The great cure to be wrought in us is the cure of self-will, that we may learn self-resignation; and all God various dealings with us have this one end in view." ²

¹ N. Hawthorne. ² R. Suckling.

III.

"Unloving words are meant to make us gentle, and delays teach patience, and care teaches faith, and press of business makes us look out for minutes to give to God, and disappointment is a special messenger to summon our thoughts to heaven." ¹

IV.

"To strive each day to do the wonted service more perfectly; to infuse and maintain in every detail a purer motive; to master each impulse, and bring each thought under a holier discipline; to be blameless in word; to sacrifice self, as an habitual law, in each sudden call to action; to take more and more secretly the lowest place; to move amid constant distractions, and above them, undisturbedly; to be content to do nothing that attracts notice, but to do it always for the greater glory of God." ²

"Go forth then with boldness to suffer, as your Lord has suffered before you; endeavour to embrace with calmness, and even with joyfulness, the pain or the sorrow which he brings you, and which is but doubled by the lingering will, the timid withdrawal." ³

¹ E. M. Sewell. ² T. T. Carter. ³ Skeflington.

This was all; but at the close was written in small letters: "Ethel: November: Sunday evening."

"Why, Nigel, how do you do? I wasn't told that you were here."

Nigel woke up from abstraction and shook hands.

"This is yours," he said. "I found it, and—read the sentences. Do you mind?"

Ethel coloured faintly. "Oh, I could not think where it was gone. I was reading 'Voices of Comfort' to mother, and I had a fancy afterwards to copy out those few pieces. How stupid of me to leave it about!"

She held out her hand, and Nigel said, "I suppose I mustn't ask to keep the paper."

"Why—you don't want it?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind, of course—only—"

"Then I may. I'll make another copy for you."

"I don't really need it—only—it was just a fancy, you know."

"Yes. Were you feeling particularly cheerful on Sunday evening?"

Ethel looked up, smiling. "Now, why must you ask that?"

"I should like to know. I don't trace the connection between all the extracts."

"Perhaps I'll tell you some day. Not this morning. I have not time."

"And I am taking up your time. But I don't seem to have seen anything of you yet."

"No. And I didn't mean—only it would be a long talk to go into those extracts. And I have everything to see to. But I don't mind saying—no, I wasn't very cheerful on Sunday evening. I wanted to go to church, and I couldn't be spared. Mother was poorly, and everything seemed awry, and I found myself on the edge of grumbles. So I looked out something to do me good."

"Perhaps it will do me good too. Ethel, your mother will spare you to-day."

"What for?"

He handed her Mr. Carden-Cox's note.

Ethel read it with a flush of delight. "Oh, that would be nice! That would be delightful!" Then a shade of doubt came. "But I am afraid I can't."

"But you must—you must indeed," urged Nigel, almost in despair. "We shall not have another day like this all the winter. Mrs. Elvey will say you must."

"No; she will say I may if I like. That makes all the difference."

"Your father—"

"He is gone out, and he won't be back till one o'clock. It doesn't matter. Even if he said that I might, I don't think I could feel that I ought."

"But if things could be arranged somehow—if it is only possible! Do just try—for my sake, won't you? Tell Mrs. Elvey that I want it, and remind her how long I have been away. Do see if it can't be done."

"I'll speak to my mother," Ethel said, and vanished.

Nigel waited with the best patience he could muster till she came quickly in, her step so light and her face so sunny that he said joyfully, "That's right! I knew you could."

"No, I can't," Ethel answered, smiling. "It won't do."

"But—!" Nigel would have found it hard to say which dismayed him most, the fact that she could not go, or the fact that she should care so little.

"Mother can't spare me. It is one of her bad days, and if I am not here everything is sure to go wrong. You see, it isn't as if there were anybody else. The boys are no good, and I must be at hand."

"It is too bad! I did hope—Malcolm is coming, and he told me you could. Don't you think you might? Malcolm said you must."

"Malcolm doesn't understand. I would really, if I could," she said, with so ultra-cheerful an air that Nigel ought to have seen through it. If she had not resolutely kept her back to the light, he must have noticed a suspicious reddening of her eyes. "I would if I could, but I don't see how. Mother would let me go, of course, if I pressed for it; but how can I when I know I can't be spared? My father will be out almost all day; and there is a cousin coming down for the night from London—you don't know him, I think. It's the Australian cousin Tom. He's such a nice fellow, and he will be here before lunch. We were with him in the summer, down in Devonshire, staying at my uncle's house, when he was there too. He would feel neglected, I am afraid, with my father out, and all of us away, and my mother poorly. It would not be right. Don't say anything to Malcolm, please; or he will wish he had stayed at home. And he ought not; he ought to go. He works so hard; and a few hours on the river will do him no end of good. And I am quite well, and don't need it."

Nigel had grown silent, as she talked gaily on. "Then I must tell Mr. Carden-Cox only to expect Malcolm," he said at length.

"I'm afraid so. It is tiresome—" ("Only tiresome! Is that all?" thought Nigel)—"very tiresome that I can't go; but things will sometimes decline to fit in. They seem to 'go perwerse,' as old nurse used to say. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves immensely. You must tell me about it afterwards."

"I hope you will too—at home," Nigel said with a great effort. He did not hope anything of the kind, really. This "Australian cousin Tom," who was "such a nice fellow," weighed upon him like an incubus.

"I am sure to do that. One always can enjoy one's self, one way or another," said Ethel merrily. "And as I shall not have the refreshment of the river, I shall have the refreshment of Tom's talk. He's full of ideas, and he has some fun in him too. I wish you and he could meet, but he only stays one night. By-and-by I hope he will pay us a long visit. Must you go? Well, please don't say a word to Malcolm to spoil his day. He doesn't know about Tom arriving before lunch, Mother only told me just now that she had heard it. We didn't expect Tom till late; but you see that makes a difference. I couldn't possibly be away—could I?"

"No; I see."

"You'll come in again some day soon, I dare say, for a proper reasonable call. You know how glad we all are to see you always."

Nigel did not care about "we all." He wanted Ethel individually to be glad. But he only said "good-bye" seriously, and went.

Ethel watched him through the window, till he was out of sight. Then she turned to the table and took up her work, but had to put it down again, for three or four large tears would have their way at last, and everything was deluged in a watery mist.

"How silly! Oh I wish I could go! But I know I am right. It would have been such a delight—the river and Nigel and all! There, I mustn't let myself think. Mother mustn't guess how I mind. I'm glad Nigel didn't see. It would have spoilt his day, if he had thought me much disappointed, and now they will all be as merry as kittens. Oh how I wish I didn't so desperately love my own way. There's nothing in the world I should like so much—such a lovely day, and all of them there, and—and only poor good-natured old Tom at home, instead! Yes, of course he has some fun in him, but such slow fun!

"Did Nigel mind very much? I hope not—I don't want his pleasure to be spoilt—and yet I shouldn't like him not to care at all. But I suppose he did, a little. When he looks so preternaturally grave it always means that he is vexed or worried. Oh if I could have been with them to-day! There now—I'm going in for discontent again. I think I'll run out and feed the chickens the first thing. It's easier to manage one's self out in the open air. And then I have any amount to get through before Tom comes, with his endless talk about Australia. The sock shall wait," concluded Ethel cheerily.

If her eyes were still moist, she left the room singing.

[CHAPTER VIII]

FIRE AND WATER

"Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island and the river."—TENNYSON.
"Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes."—SHAKESPEARE.

"YOU don't mean to say you are going in a washing summer dress! Fulvie! And this—November!" exclaimed Daisy, with rounded eyes.

"It is the prettiest dress I have." Fulvia spoke composedly, looking at herself in the pier-glass. The colour of her costume, dark navy-blue, with portions of a lighter shade, was suitable for any season; and the material though really a washing fabric, did not look like it. Fulvia knew this to be a becoming dress. It had been made in particularly graceful style by a London dressmaker, and fitted beautifully, showing her figure to the best advantage; while the colour harmonised well with her reddish hair. Several people had assured her that in this dress she looked "quite handsome."

Some impulse came over her to don it, when making ready for the boat trip; she could hardly have told why. Of course the real wish was a desire to look well in Nigel's eyes, and of course this was the last admission she would have made even to herself. But she obeyed the impulse. Then Daisy came in, and remonstrated.

"Nobody would take it for a summer dress, and I like the coolness. It is so warm this morning—quite oppressive. I feel as if I could hardly breathe. Besides, I don't mind if this gets splashed. My nice serge might be spoilt."

"Why don't you put on your old brown thing? Mr. Carden-Cox wouldn't care."

"I detest myself in that brown. It makes me hideous."

"Well, what matter? Nobody would mind. There 'll be nobody to see, who signifies; only Nigel and a few others."

"I should mind. I like to look respectable."

"You'll take cold."

"As if I ever did! Besides, I have plenty underneath the dress to keep me warm."

"Then you'll wear your fur cloak, I suppose?"

"No; I shall take the cloak but I couldn't endure the weight of it all day. I mean to wear this," as she lifted a "half-season" jacket of thin cloth; which was tailor-made and fitted like a glove.

"I think you are crazy," declared Daisy. "Why Anice and I are going in serge dresses, and our thickest winter jackets."

"Quite right to be prudent. Anice can't take too many warm wraps."

She had to undergo another ordeal of criticism downstairs on her lack of wisdom, but it was too late then to change, even had she been willing, and they were speedily off.

Fulvia was the prominent person in the boat that day. Mr. Carden-Cox being host, his niece fell naturally into the position more or less of hostess. Mr. Carden-Cox might make a favourite of Daisy, but he paid due honour to the eldest girl, and he never failed to acknowledge the family tie between himself and her. She was indeed almost the sole relative left to him.

Mr. and Mrs. Browning were not present. Mr. Browning proved unpersuadable; and as a matter of course Mrs. Browning stayed at home with him. Dr. Duncan failed to accompany his genial wife, and his pretty fifteen-years-old daughter, Annibel, Daisy's great chum. The particular friend of Anice, Rose Bramble, and Rose's brother, Baldwyn, were of the party. Fulvia had no great chums, or particular friends. She always said she could not find anybody who suited her.

Malcolm Elvey appeared at the last moment, racing at headlong speed down the garden, just when all hope of him was given up, and Mr. Carden-Cox had actually given the word of command to cast off. The garden ended in a steep wall, which was level with the path on one side, and went sheer down into deep water on the other side, and was broken by the flight of steps and small boat-house. A narrow space divided the steam-launch from the wall, and Malcolm sprang lightly across. He had been an agile schoolboy not long before.

"Just in time!" Nigel said.

"I couldn't get here sooner. Impossible," panted Malcolm.

Some of the party were in high spirits; not all. Baldwyn Bramble, who went in for being witty, made jokes without end, for the benefit of the girls. He rather admired Anice, but found Daisy's retorts sometimes too sharp to be agreeable. Malcolm threw off the cares of parish work, and entered with zest into all that went on. Before luncheon, through luncheon, and after luncheon, as they still steamed up the river, silence had no chance of reigning for the shortest space, and the pretty banks rang with bursts of laughter.

Nigel could not get into the full swing of fun. Though joining sufficiently to prevent remark, he was unable to shake off the recollection of Ethel at home gaily talking to the "Australian cousin Tom," and pleased to be there rather than on the river. If only he had seen her a little grieved and disappointed, he could have borne her absence bettor. As it was, he felt that he was not making way with Ethel. Things were different from what they once had been. The old frankness and freedom, the complete trust and understanding between them, seemed to be lacking. He loved Ethel more than ever, but he could not at all tell how much she cared for him.

She did care for him, of course, in a measure. "We all," as she had told him, were always ready to give him a welcome; but Nigel craved far more.

Ethel had grown older now, and so had he. Perhaps she wished him to feel that things were and must be a little different, that the boy and girl friendship had to be transposed into something more calm and distant. He wanted it transposed himself, but by no means into something more distant.

And here was Tom—a nice fellow, full of fun and full of talk. Ethel had plainly seen a good deal of him; and who could tell what manner of impression he had made upon her? How bright she had looked at the very thought of seeing Tom a few hours earlier than had been expected! And how little she had cared about losing the boat excursion with himself!

Nigel had seldom felt less full of fun and talk than this afternoon. He had great difficulty in keeping up to the mark at all. Ethel was never out of his mind. He managed pretty well at lunch, and for a while after; but presently he left other folks alone, standing to gaze at the wooded heights, in apparent admiration of their beauty, while he was really looking in imagination at the Rectory drawing-room, hearing Tom's amusing conversation, and Ethel's bright response. If somebody had asked him suddenly whether his eyes were fixed upon turf or trees, he could not have told.

Fulvia alone saw all this, noted every turn of expression, and was aware of his struggle against what Ethel would have called "preternatural gravity." Fulvia was not fully herself to-day. She had not yet recovered from that tearful night-watch, and the "rainy season" lasted still, fitfully; though no traces of tears were visible beyond a general softening of the face. Hope aided in the softening. She saw Nigel's gravity, but she did not ascribe it to Ethel. He had taken Ethel's absence so quietly, hardly uttering a word of regret. No; it was not Ethel. He was only anxious about his father, good affectionate son that he always had been; and he could not shake off the weight.

Nigel was undoubtedly a good son, an affectionate son; and he did feel disturbed about his father's possible condition. Mr. Carden-Cox's warning had been strong enough to cause uneasiness. But the load upon him to-day arose from another cause; the real pain was for Ethel. If Ethel could have come, he would have been the most joyous of the party; if Ethel had spoken out her disappointment, he could still have been cheerful. Now every joke was an effort.

Fulvia did not read the truth; perhaps because she would not. Nigel's composure about Ethel's absence had stirred her to the core. She could no more shake off for a moment the consciousness of his presence than he could shake off the consciousness of Ethel's absence; yet she showed it no more than he did. If Nigel drew a step nearer, her heart beat thickly, as it had taken to doing these last few days; but none could have guessed the fact. Though really by no means well, she was looking her best. Excitement and feverish warmth lent a flush to her cheeks; and the slight heaviness of her eyelids gave to the eyes a rare softness. Now and then she caught Nigel's glance; and after lunch Daisy whispered in passing, "Do you know, Nigel says you have grown pretty this year?"

Fulvia only laughed in response. She grew warmer still; and while other people were glad to don wraps, she pulled off even her cloth jacket, becoming a central figure, daintily attired.

Nigel presently underwent some banter for his abstracted gaze at the hills, and to escape it, he came to her side.

She was sitting apart from the rest; and again her heart gave so fierce a throb that she could hardly believe he would not hear. "Stupid! What has come over me?" she demanded angrily of herself, while looking up, and saying—

"How thoroughly Malcolm is enjoying himself."

"He has earned a few hours' rest if anybody ever did."

"And he looks better for it already. When do we turn?"

"Soon, I believe. The girls have been begging for another half-hour."

"You will be glad to get back. After going round the world, a trip like this must seem hardly worth the trouble."

"I don't think—" Nigel began and paused.

"Isn't that it? But you certainly are a degree flat to-day—are you not?"

He made no immediate response, seeming to consider what to say.

And suddenly, without premeditation, Fulvia found herself remarking, "So Ethel could not come."

"No," Nigel said slowly.

"Very disappointing for her."

"Yes."

"Mrs. Elvey not well, you told us. But surely she might have spared Ethel."

"Perhaps—yes—but that was not the only reason. A cousin was expected to lunch."

"Which cousin? A young lady?"

"No—the one from Australia."

"Mr. Tom Elvey?"

"His name is Tom, certainly."

"I remember. He has been here once before; and they saw a good deal of him last summer. Yes; he seemed rather—"

Fulvia did not finish her sentence.

"Yes. You know something of him?"

"Not much. Ethel talked about him to us. I believe he has made plenty of money out there. Perhaps he has come home for a wife."

"A wife would not be hard to find; if he is not particular as to the description," Nigel said, with a short laugh.

"He need not look far," Fulvia spoke, with more meaning in her tone than she was aware.

"Do you think there is anything between him and Ethel?"

Was this indifference—or was it—? Fulvia did not frame the question. She gave one swift glance at his face, noting its gravity. Like a flash came the thought of her midnight resolution to "smooth the way" for him and Ethel; to put self aside, and only to be happy in the knowledge that others were so.

But with this recollection came also a sharp temptation. Why was she to do anything of the kind? Why need she act? Why not let things take their course? How could she tell whether Nigel did really care for Ethel? In any case, why must she help the thing on? Nay, if she could hinder it by a touch, why not? Hardly all this in words, for there was but a pause of two seconds; but the temptation was powerful, and Fulvia's resolution had been only her own. No panoply of heaven's armour shielded her.

"What should make you suppose so?" she asked in an undertone, matching his.

"I don't suppose. I asked what you thought."

"Oh, perhaps—did she seem very much delighted at the idea of seeing him again?" Fulvia had an abundant share of feminine perception, and she knew, only too well, how and where to strike. Yet to give pain to Nigel was to give pain to herself, and her heart smote her as she saw his look. Then the look vanished, and she would not believe, or at least admit, that it had existed.

"I thought her pleased."

"One often is pleased to see a cousin, of course; at least, I should imagine so. I don't speak from experience, having no cousins. But really I can't pretend to know much about this Mr. Tom Elvey. Ethel seemed to have enjoyed his society on the whole, last summer—at least she talked about him a good deal afterwards. I don't suppose it has come to anything—yet! One never can tell what may be."

Fulvia spoke in a deliberate and careless tone. Not a word that she uttered was untrue; nevertheless, she hated herself for saying what she did, saying just so much and so little. A few more words would have made all the difference. She might have told how Ethel, while talking truly "a good deal" about this cousin, had laughed at his slowness, at his ponderous jokes, at his love of bestowing information upon everybody. Not unkindly, but in a way which effectually barred any notion of an attachment between the two.

Fulvia could recall how the Elvey boys had voted Tom "a bore"; and how Ethel had said, "Poor fellow! Don't be too hard on him. He does his best."

But Fulvia said no more. Even while she despised herself for it, she was silent; trying to believe that her silence could make no real difference. She was at liberty to jest if she liked. Nigel might find out when he chose exactly how matters really stood. Besides, who could tell what might happen? Many a girl ends by marrying the man whom at first she criticised. If Nigel cared, he had but to ask.

Nigel's next remark was in a different tone. "I must try to bring about that interview between my father and Jamie in a day or two." Dr. Duncan was commonly known at the Grange as "Jamie" or "Cousin Jamie."

"Have you said anything to padre yet?"

"Yes; a little. I fancy he will give way."

"You don't suppose him to be really ill, do you? Not seriously?"

"One can't tell. Don't mention this again, but I saw Duncan yesterday afternoon, and pressed for an opinion. He confessed he had seen for some time that my father was very much out of health, and he thought the matter ought not to be left. He would not say anything more definite."

"And that is why you are so grave to-day?"

The answer was evasive. "One can't help being uneasy. Jamie is not a man to look on the dismal side without some reason. Things may be better than he expects; but I don't understand my father's state, mental or bodily. He seems to take depressed views all round. Did you know that he objected to Oxford for me?"

"No!"

"Doesn't like the expense."

"But, Nigel—why, what absurdity! As if that had not been settled years ago!"

"He says he cannot afford it. Don't tell the girls."

"No—" with a glow of pleasure at his confidence. "But what can padre mean?"

"That is all he says—too much expense—and the Bar too uncertain. He talks of an appointment at the Bank."

"Newton Bury Bank! Nonsense! A clerk on a three-logged stool, under Mr. Bramble!"

"He says it might lead to partnership and wealth."

"Wealth! What does that matter? You will have enough of your own. Besides, the Bar would lead to wealth too, if you were successful; and you would be successful. I know you would."

"Not so soon."

"But that is the very thing that does not matter when you have plenty to live upon meantime. You can afford to wait. Padre has not to provide for a dozen boys. You, the only son, surely ought to be free to choose. It must be a fit of the dumps. Don't let him decide on anything in a hurry. Cannot you talk matters over with Uncle Arthur? Anyhow, do keep padre from acting till he gets over this mood. Too much expense! I never heard anything so absurd in my life. Did he explain what he meant?"

"He spoke of 'embarrassments.'"

"To be sure, he always is talking now of expenses, but still—Nigel!" As a thought struck her, "Is it because I am coming of age? That will make no difference. Of course he will go on having just the same, so long as I live at the Grange. Not right! Yes, it is right. Any other plan would not be right. I can assure you, I will only stay on those terms. I should have told him long ago, only I have never liked to assume that it would not be so as a matter of course. But I'll take care to tell him now."

Nigel muttered something about "Generous!"

"It is not generosity. It is the merest common justice. Do you think he has been worrying about that? You could not give up college—it would be too terrible a disappointment, when your mind has been set on it all these years. And the Bar! Why, Uncle Arthur always declares you are just made for a special pleader. You don't fritter yourself away in energetic talk about nothing, but when anything does stir you, there's no mistake about it. Fancy coming down from that to a country bank! Perhaps padre will be brighter after seeing Dr. Duncan. We must wait a few days; and I'll manage to have a talk with him."

It was gladness to Fulvia to learn this fresh cause for his depression. Anything rather than Ethel!

Nigel presently strolled away again, and she saw him laughing with Malcolm, more heartily than since they had started. The joke, whatever it was, seemed infectious; and the merriment became general. Fulvia rose and moved to a seat nearer, where she could hear what went on.

Baldwyn Bramble had been smoking a cigar, and had tossed away the still lighted end—overboard, he believed, but it had fallen short, dropping on the deck almost under the chair which Fulvia now took. Nobody saw it fall there except Daisy, and Daisy forgot the fact in a second. The red end smouldered still, and when Fulvia sat down, her dress rested upon it. Had she worn a woollen fabric, no harm might have resulted; but a washing summer fabric is a different matter.

Fulvia noted the strong scent, but she was unconscious of her peril.

Mr. Bramble presently walked to the farther end of the launch, and Malcolm disappeared behind the funnel. Nigel was talking to Mrs. Duncan, Annibel, and Daisy, beyond hearing. Only Anice and Rose remained near where Fulvia sat. Fulvia had lost the joke after all.

"What were you laughing at just now?" she asked.

"Oh, just something Mr. Elvey said," Rose answered. "What was it, Anice? I couldn't quite understand, only everybody laughed, and so—"

"And so you did too!" Fulvia spoke with a touch of disdain. She counted Rose an inane specimen of giggling young ladyhood.

"Well, of course, I couldn't keep out of it," explained Rose. "It looks so stupid to sit with a solemn face when other people are laughing."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Oh!—Ask for a joke to be explained! That is more stupid still. Baldwyn always says a joke never bears being repeated. Besides, one looks so silly, not to understand at once."

"I wonder whether 'to be' or 'to look' is the worst," murmured Fulvia.

Rose's density was proof against this, or she might have been offended. "Anice can tell you," she said.

No, Anice could not. Anice, like Rose, had laughed because others laughed, not because she divined the joke. Fulvia shrugged her shoulders, and was mute.

Some seconds, or some two or three minutes, might have passed—Fulvia could not afterwards recall which—when she became conscious of a peculiar odour, not only the scent of the cigar but a distinct smell of burning. Then she was vaguely aware of a blue smoke. She had gone back in thought to Nigel's future, and was cogitating deeply, so deeply that though physical consciousness was awake, her mind did not at once respond.

An impulse to escape from the girls' chatter came over her, and she stood up, moving a few steps away from her sheltered seat, into the breeze; the very worst thing she could have done, had she only known it.

Strange, this idea of Mr. Browning's about Nigel! Could his affairs really be under serious embarrassment? If it were so—Well, in any case, Fulvia would have ample means of her own. A sense of joy shot through her, at the thought of becoming a family benefactor. Would Nigel be willing? Yes, surely—if he still viewed her as sister! What more natural? Besides, he need not know. She would find out from "padre" the real state of affairs, and would insist upon putting everything straight. She had, or at least in a few weeks she would have, both the power and the right. Nobody then might say her nay, if she chose to give away any part of her possessions. Nothing should or must stand in the way of Nigel's going to college. She knew how he was bent upon it. Of course—that was why he looked so sad. Not Ethel; only this. So what she had said about Ethel did not matter. This was the real trouble; and how delightful to think that her hand might remove it!

"Fulvie! Fulvie!! O Fulvie!—Your dress is on fire!! Oh!!"

Anice's shriek reached slowly her absorbed mind at first bringing bewilderment. Then she was aware of smoke, smell, heat, and she sprang forward to get some woollen wrap; but the movement brought her yet more fully into the fresh breeze. In the tenth of a second the fanned flame ran greedily up her skirt, and swept round her, licking with fierce touch the bare skin of her hand, and rising to scorch her face.

Fulvia's scream was agonising. She had been always known as a girl of much presence of mind, by no means given to crying out; but she was taken by surprise, and unnerved. Anice and Rose fled at once, in fear for themselves, calling to others to help. Fulvia never forgot that moment, the brief yet prolonged horror, the anguish of isolation. It was as if everybody had forsaken her; none would dare to approach; and she was left face to face with awful peril, face to face with death.

"Nigel!" was the one word which broke from her in hoarse appeal. She could not think, could not recall what ought to be done. She could only rush forward, throwing out her hands in agony. And then, instantly, she saw Nigel's face close at hand.

Shouts and cries were sounding. "A shawl! A rug! I say—throw her down! Have her flat!"

Malcolm was flying along the deck. But Nigel had reached her before the first hoarse shriek of his name came to an end; and he did not hesitate. As he sprang forward, he grasped Fulvia firmly, dragged her to the side of the vessel, and with one clear leap went over, Fulvia in his arms. There was a flash of red flame, followed by a heavy splash, and the two sank out of sight.

[CHAPTER IX]

WHISPERINGS

"For ebbing resolution ne'er returns,
But falls still further from its former shore."—HORNE.

"STOP! Stop! Put her about! Stop, I say!" roared Mr. Carden-Cox in a state of desperation which rendered him almost incapable of speech. He strode wildly about, while Anice and Rose continued to shriek, Daisy seemed turned to stone, and Malcolm flung off his coat.

But the two heads almost instantly rose, and Nigel shouted, "All right."

"I'm coming," cried Malcolm.

"No, no—only a rope!"

"A rope—a rope—hoy! Hey!—A rope, I say!—Put her about—stop—a rope!" spluttered Mr. Carden-Cox, seizing Malcolm's arm, and holding on like a vice, not in the least aware of what he did.

"I say! Let me go," expostulated Malcolm; "She'll be too much for him."

In response to which Mr. Carden-Cox tightened his grasp, reiterating—

"A rope! A rope!—Hoy!—A rope, I say! Put her about! Stop!"

The engines had been at once reversed, but the boat was going up stream, and some seconds had to elapse before actual movement in the opposite direction could begin. The current was pretty strong, carrying Nigel and his charge downward, despite his best efforts. Nigel was not a little impeded by his clothes. He had not waited even to throw off his coat; and Fulvia hung as a dead weight, seeming to be stunned by the double shock.

Then sense returned, and in a moment she was clinging to him with a convulsive grasp which threatened to sink them both.

"Let go, Fulvia!" He spoke in a sharp, clear voice. "Don't hold me! I'll take care of you."

Fulvia gasped for breath. They were almost under water; and though for an instant she obeyed, her hands clutched at him wildly again.

"Fulvie dear, you must not! Let go! You will drown us both. Keep still, and trust me."

He had done the business now. She clenched her hands together, and left herself to him like a log. That "Fulvie dear" settled the matter; yet the words meant nothing. Nigel hardly even knew what he had said. It was merely the instinctive recurrence at a critical moment to the old childish terms. Fulvia had always been his sister, "every inch as much as Anice or Daisy," he would have said. Nigel had never thought of her in any other light. But Fulvia could not realise this; for she did not think of Nigel as of a brother.

Nigel could keep himself afloat now, and hold up Fulvia, till the boat steamed near, and a rope was flung. The open loop fell upon them, and in another minute both were hauled in, and helped upward.

Fulvia; again scarcely conscious, was laid flat on the deck, streaming with water, her face white, her hair loose in heavy dripping masses. It had been much singed, and part of her skirt was reduced almost to tinder, yet her skin had escaped marvellously. One hand and arm only were scorched to any painful degree.

Her first words were a murmured, "It smarts so!" but the next moment she added, "Never mind. I'm not really hurt."

"Thanks to this dear brave boy," Mr. Carden-Cox said huskily. "I declare, I never saw anything finer."

"It was the natural thing to do," Nigel asserted.

A hurried consultation took place. They were more than two hours distant by boat from Newton Bury; the steamer contained no change of clothes; and the minute cabin afforded no facilities for drying. Five minutes lower down the river lay a village, large enough to own a good landing-place and a respectable inn; and Mrs. Duncan counselled a stoppage there. Two or three hours in wet clothes on a November afternoon were not to be thought of.

The suggestion was speedily carried out. Anice, crying helplessly still, was left on board with the Brambles and Annibel; but Mrs. Duncan and Mr. Carden-Cox, Daisy and Malcolm, accompanied the soaked pair. Fulvia had by this time so far rallied that she insisted on walking from the river-bank to the inn, a matter of two hundred yards; and she even achieved two or three hysterical laughs by the way at her own deplorable appearance. Nigel looked rather white round the lips, as if chilled by his bath; but he seemed to have sprung suddenly into a fit of high spirits, saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, and sending Daisy into convulsions of laughter.

The inn reached, rooms were secured, big fires were ordered, and the sympathies of the portly landlady, Mrs. Brice, were enlisted.

The good woman could only hold up her plump hands at first, with dismayed utterances of—"My!" and "I never did!" But orders for hot water and big fires received speedy attention.

Mrs. Brice's own clothes would, as Daisy said, have "folded twice round Fulvia, with something to spare." She had, however, a daughter, and a neat brown dress belonging to the latter was speedily produced, not more than three inches too large at the waist.

Nigel fared equally well at the hands of the landlady's son. And while these changes of apparel were taking place, Mr. Carden-Cox found consolation in ordering a solid afternoon tea, inclusive of eggs and meat.

"For they'll need to be warmed up after their ducking," he said, as Daisy bounced in. "Everybody will be the better for something hot. Well, child, how is Fulvie?"

"She is getting on—only feels shivery and queer; but I should think a cup of coffee would put her right. Isn't it strange?—A lot of Fulvie's hair is all frizzled up with the fire, and yet her face isn't touched; not even the eyelashes burnt."

"Can't think how on earth the thing happened."

"Oh, it was Mr. Bramble, I know. I saw his cigar-end drop there, when he threw it away; and then I forgot all about it, we were having such a lot of fun. I wish I hadn't!"

Mr. Carden-Cox shook his head mutely. If any one but his favourite Daisy had been speaking, he would have read her a homily on thoughtlessness.

"Yes, I know—it was dreadfully stupid," Daisy said, her eyes filling. "I can't think how I could. But when Mr. Bramble tried to make out that it was a spark from the engine, I had to bite my lips not to speak. Wasn't it horrid of him not to help, but only to stand staring? Of course everybody couldn't jump into the river—needn't, at least—but he might have wanted to help. Malcolm was only one second behind Nigel; and he would have been in too, if you hadn't kept him back."

"I keep him back! Tut, tut, child! He didn't go in because it was not necessary."

Daisy's brown eyes opened to their widest extent. "Oh, I say, how unfair! Poor Malcolm! When you tugged at him with all your might and main, and wouldn't let go."

A dim recollection of facts came across Mr. Carden-Cox. "Well, well—it doesn't matter now," he said. "Malcolm would have acted if Nigel had not."

"And Anice and Rose ran away. I think that was so cowardly," said Daisy, with the stern condemnation of sixteen. "If I had been near, I would have made Fulvie lie down, and have tried to put out the fire. But the first thing I knew was the screaming, and then I saw the blaze, and Nigel going across with such a leap. And I felt so odd—as if somehow I couldn't stir for Just a moment—and then it was all done. Shall I tell Fulvie to come before the tea gets cold?"

Mr. Carden-Cox offered no objection.

And outside the door Daisy was met by a subdued—"I say!"

"Nigel, how comical you do look!"

"Narrow as to the shoulders, and baggy as to the waist. Not quite a perfect fit—but I'm glad to be dry again. I say, Daisy—"

"Fulvia's better, and we're all going to have lots of tea, and to be jolly."

"So I hear. We ought to be back on the boat soon. It will get awfully cold on the river for Anice. I say, Daisy—just listen one moment. I want you to do something for me."

"Oh, what?"

"If I am asked to cut bread or carve meat, will you act the energetic younger sister and do it instead? Mr. Carden-Cox means us to go in for substantials."

"Yes, of course. But why? What do you mean? Are you tired?"

"No—only I managed to scorch my hands. Nothing of consequence—I'll see to them by-and-by, but I don't want a fuss now. It would upset Fulvie—don't you see?"

"Oh,—do show me!"

"No, nonsense—hands off, Daisy!" as she pulled in vain at his coat-sleeve. "Don't!" and he spoke with unwonted sharpness, catching his breath.

Daisy stared. "Did I hurt? Was it that?"

"Never mind—it is nothing to signify. I won't have a word said; only I just want your help, like a good child, about the cutting and carving. Malcolm knows; and you and he, between you, can keep it from Fulvie."

"I'll be sure," Daisy answered, a sound like a gulp accompanying the words.

"That's right. You've been as plucky as possible, not giving in. Yes, I saw, of course—didn't you think I should? It's so much more sensible to take things cheerfully. What earthly good would it do, if we all sat down and howled?"

Daisy gave his arm a great squeeze of assent, delighted to find her efforts appreciated. She did not know what the squeeze meant to him, and he forbore even to wince.

Somewhat later, Fulvia sat dreamily in an arm-chair, close to the parlour fender. She could not get warm, despite a roaring fire and a thick shawl. Icy chills chased one another persistently through her frame, even to the extent of chattering teeth; and she was overpowered by weakness. She could not for a moment shake off the remembrance of that terrible tongue of flame wrapping itself round her, followed by the plunge into cold water, the struggle for breath, the deadly fright; then Nigel's face, as it had first come to her in the moment of hopeless horror, and Nigel's voice as it had spoken a minute later, "Fulvie dear! Fulvie dear!" Memory refused to carry her beyond those two words.

Fulvia made an effort to lift her weighted eyelids that she might glance towards Nigel. How sunshiny he looked, seated between Daisy and Malcolm, merrily avowing himself "lazy," and letting Daisy cut supplies of bread-and-butter for everybody, himself included! Was he so bright because he had saved her life? Anybody might rejoice to save any follow-creature from a terrible death; but was she no more than "any fellow-creature" to him? And Ethel was not present. He had not seen Ethel for hours. That look could not mean "Ethel"!

What had made him speak so in the water? "Fulvie dear" was not his usual style. As a little boy he had been addicted to the mode of address; but for years she had not heard the expression. Could it be that the sudden peril to her had drawn his deeper feeling to the surface?

Fulvia hardly shaped these questions into words. She felt them, rather than said them even to herself, as she sat by the fire, apart from the rest, silent and unable to enter into all that went on. The shock of that moment's horror was on her still; and her faculties were benumbed. She drank some hot tea, but could not eat; and she was unaware how anxiously others watched.

Drowsiness presently had her in its grasp; not growing into actual sleep, at least for a while, but slowly enchaining her as with weights of lead. The sound of voices lessened till she could only hear an occasional whisper. There was a barricade like a stone wall between her and the outer world. Thought went on dimly within, uncontrollable by any effort of her own; and more dimly still she was aware of movements and utterances on the other side of the wall. Now and again a few words were clear.

"I told you so! It is exhaustion. She must have her sleep out, poor girl!"

Fulvia knew Mrs. Duncan's tones, and could have smiled to think that she was not asleep, had not the exertion of a smile been too great. She was capable only of passive endurance.

"Ethel—Nigel—my resolution." A voice within the enclosing walls said this.

"Oh no—no—no!" sighed Fulvia; but the very sigh was internal. Outwardly she seemed to be in profound slumber; and soon the seeming became reality.

* * * * * * *

"Plucky! Yes." The words stole in upon Fulvia with a subtle power; and she divined at once of whom they were spoken. "Never should have guessed anything was wrong."

"But Daisy had found it out."

"No, he asked her to cut the loaf at tea—didn't want Fulvia to know. Thoughtful of the lad! She was upset enough already, poor thing. I say, Mrs. Duncan—" Mr. Carden-Cox lowered his voice to almost a whisper—"I say, Mrs. Duncan, what do you think? Anything likely in that quarter?"

Fulvia heard a little snap of his fingers. The idea that she ought not to listen never occurred to her. She was hardly out of dreamland yet; and body and mind were so stupefied that movement seemed impossible.

"Nigel and Fulvia! No!"

"Why not?—eh?" with a sound of disappointment. "Why should they?"

"Why should they like one another? Nothing more natural. Always together from childhood."

"That's the very thing! Intimacy doesn't end as a rule in a real attachment. People get to know each other too well. Half the marriages that take place never would take place if the husband and wife were better acquainted beforehand. A hazy uncertainty is more favourable to love-making."

"Nonsense!"

"It's sense, I am afraid. Intimacy is apt to do away with the poetical glamour."

"Poetical rubbish!" in a whisper of high disdain. "I beg your pardon, but really—! The fact is, his father wants this, and I want it. First time Browning and I have ever wished the same thing. Couldn't be anything more suitable from every point of view."

"Unless from Nigel's own. He will choose for himself, you may be sure? If you had said 'Nigel and Ethel!'"

"Ethel Elvey! No, no. That won't do. Good girl, and immense favourite of mine, but not a penny will come to her. No—no, that won't do at all."

"Nigel will hardly marry for money."

"Nobody ever does. He may chance to fall in love with the girl who has money."

"I doubt it."

"Well, all I have to say is that Nigel will not marry Ethel Elvey!"

"Nobody can tell yet."

"He will not, my good lady!" Mr. Carden-Cox was always strengthened in his opinion by opposition. "You mark my words! He may or may not marry Fulvia. He will not marry Ethel."

Fulvia was wide awake now; stupefied no longer; her head burning, her blood coursing wildly. She knew she ought to speak, but how could she?—How betray that she had heard so much?

"However," pursued Mr. Carden-Cox, as if dismissing the subject, "however, I was telling you about Nigel's hurts."

"Much burnt, you say?"

"Right palm a mass of blisters, chafed by the rope. Couldn't think what made him sit through tea-time, doing nothing! Not like Nigel! Daisy wouldn't have told—little monkey—but he betrayed himself getting on board. Stumbled and grasped at something, and I saw his face. I should never have guessed otherwise. Anice wailed, of course; and Daisy was most womanful—actually had had the sense to take with her some rag and linseed oil. She did up the hand as nattily as could be. There's some stuff in that girl, I do believe. Hallo!"

For Fulvia sat up, asking, "Is Nigel hurt?"

"My dear, are you just awake?" said Mrs. Duncan, coming near. "Better for the rest, I hope. You need not worry yourself about Nigel. He scorched his hand; that is all. They have gone home in the boat, and we are to follow in a fly as soon as you can start. Would you like to get ready now?"

"The sooner the better! How lazy I have been!"

[CHAPTER X]

TOM'S SPECIMENS

"The languages, especially the dead,
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
The arts, at least all such as could be said
To be the most remote from common use."

"VERY pretty," said Ethel, gaping furtively behind one hand, as she gazed upon the open page of Tom Elvey's beloved companion, a neat herbarium of dried flowers and leaves. The cover of the volume was dark brown, the pages were light brown, and most of the gummed-down specimens were of a more or less dirty brown. Tom handled his treasure affectionately, and Ethel viewed each new page with outward politeness and inward wonder. That anybody should care for dead brown leaves, when living green ones were to be had, was a mystery to her.

"Yes, very pretty," she repeated, smothering a second yawn, as Tom waited for appreciation. What would Nigel be doing just then? Ah, coming homeward, of course, for the afternoon was growing old.

"At least, I mean that it must have been pretty once," continued truthful Ethel. "What is that on the next page? Edelweiss—is it really? I like the edelweiss. Yes, that does bear drying. How nice!"

"It is a first-rate specimen," said Tom.

"Did you gather it yourself?"

"On the Matterhorn—no, I mean on the Jungfrau. I never put any specimen into this herbarium which I have not procured with my own hands."

"I see—so it becomes a sort of record of your wanderings," said Ethel. "And you really are a mountain-climber?"

"Not to any perilous extent. I went for this specimen."

"And turned back as soon as you had got it!"

Tom's "yes" was innocent. He did not understand Ethel's tone.

"Of course I could have bought a specimen; but that would not have been the same thing."

"Like bagging partridges," suggested Ethel, wanting a flash of some sort to relieve the dead level of talk.

But though Tom could sometimes originate slow fun, he never could respond to anybody else's fun; and his look of blank inquiry made it needful for her to explain.

"I mean, you would only count the partridges which you had shot yourself; not what—But perhaps you don't shoot."

"I have been after kangaroos—once," said Tom.

Ethel gave a private glance towards the clock, taking care that Tom should not see. She was bent upon making this a pleasant visit to him, not letting him see how very much she would have preferred to be somewhere else. Some girls would have been glum and flat under the circumstances; but Ethel was not. She exerted herself to be bright, made Tom tell her all about the one kangaroo hunt which had been a leading event in his existence, and when he came back to the inevitable herbarium she submitted without a sigh to be lectured upon "the Australian flora."

Tom was quite a botanist in a small way; and he dearly liked to air his knowledge before a good listener. Ethel loved flowers intensely, yet she was no botanist. She made friends of her plants, studied their ways, and was delighted to know how they grow, how they bore flowers, what manner of soil suited them, whether they preferred heat or cold, sunshine or shade. But she detested classifications and Latin names, and would have nought to do with what Lance irreverently termed "Tom's genuses and specieses." She cared not one rap whether a blossom had stamens which adhered to the corolla or sprang from the calyx; whether the anthers opened inwards or outwards; whether the petals were in multiples of twos or of threes.

The Elveys were not as a family scientifically inclined, and Ethel's tastes had never been cultivated in that direction. Tom, on the other hand, delighted in rolling off his tongue this or that lengthy Linnean "—andria," or Natural History "—aceæ"; and Ethel submitted with the utmost sweetness.

Tom was charmed. He thought Ethel one of the most agreeable girls he had ever seen. She was immensely improved, he thought—"really quite intelligent, and capable of growing into a well-informed young woman, with proper supervision." Who so fitted to give the needed supervision as Tom himself? He began to think that a long visit at the Rectory would be no bad plan. Something had been said about it. Yes, he would accept the invitation; and then he could take Ethel's higher education in hand. Mr. Elvey was a very able man, no doubt, a man indeed of considerable attainments, but "classical—merely classical": Tom decided pityingly. Ethel would never gain any scientific bias from her father.

So it was full time that Tom should step forward and bestir himself, with perhaps a view to future possibilities. Who could tell what might come of it? Tom was young still, under thirty, and not bad-looking, though of awkward make. He would be a well-to-do man out in Australia one of these days. Even now he could afford to enjoy life, and to indulge himself in an occasional bout of sight-seeing—more correctly, of specimen-hunting.

In due time he would require a wife to look after him, to sew on his buttons, to pour out his tea, to attend generally to his needs. Tom had come to England with the vague idea of finding a wife before he went back. He began to wonder whether Ethel might not do. Those dainty little fingers of hers would be invaluable for arranging dried flowers upon the pages of his herbariums. Tom's own fingers being thick, and by no means dainty in action, there was the more need that he should choose a wife to supply his own deficiencies.

Thus a new thought grow into existence, as the afternoon waned—a short afternoon to Tom, though a long one to Ethel. But Tom's mental processes were always slow; and he gave no sign of what was brewing.

Mrs. Elvey made her appearance downstairs for a space, and Tom regaled her with sumptuous descriptions of the eucalyptus. Mrs. Elvey sighed, and said "How nice!" to everything.

By-and-by she vanished, and again Ethel found it difficult to hide her recurring yawns. Mr. Elvey had a succession of engagements all day, therefore he could not give help; and the boys always fled from Tom, in dread of Tom's perpetual outpour of "information."

So Ethel had nothing in the way of assistance from others, and talk began to flag irresistibly. They had gone through the herbarium from end to end. They had done any amount of Australian kangaroos and plants. Ethel had shown Tom everything in the house worth seeing. She had taken him round the garden for a stroll, and had proposed "a good ramble," which Tom to her disappointment had declined. His bodily action was like his mental action, somewhat slow; and though he could walk any amount with an object—in search of a "specimen," for instance—he scorned exercise for the sake of exercise. Ethel loved it, and she thought it would be so much easier to get on out-of-doors than indoors; if only Tom would have consented. Would the afternoon never end? Was Malcolm ever coming back?

A step at last! Ethel sprang up, with a word of excuse, and flew to the front door.

No, not Malcolm, but her father! Mr. Elvey looked, down with a stirred expression, and said, "Well—" a long breath following. "Have you heard?"

"No, what? O father—not an accident!"

"Nothing serious, though it might have been. Why, Ethel—child—I did not mean to frighten you. They are all right—safe at home—and Malcolm will be here presently. Fulvia's dress caught fire, and she would have been badly burnt but for Nigel. He was splendidly prompt—caught Fulvia in his arms, and went straight over into the river. Mr. Carden-Cox says it was the finest thing he ever saw. Capital fellow, isn't he?"

The light of pride shone through Ethel's eyes, even while they were brimming with tears. "Not hurt?" she managed to say.

"Fulvia hardly at all, only shaken and scorched. Nigel's right hand has suffered a good deal. Duncan says he will have to wear a sling for some days. Nobody knew a word about it for ever so long: he didn't want to distress Fulvia. I'm not sure that he did not show greater pluck there than in saving her. Difference of doing a thing when one is under excitement, and when one is cool, you know. We shall have to make much of him after this. Why, child!—"

Ethel's face dropped against the shoulder of his greatcoat.

"Father—if he had been—"

"Had been badly hurt? But he was not, nor she either—thank God! Come, cheer up."

He patted her arm, and Ethel clung to him more closely. Somebody was passing through the garden, and Mr. Elvey smiled but said nothing till the somebody came close; then only, "It is about you. Never mind. She'll be herself in a minute."

"I thought I would call, for fear of any exaggerated story getting round," said Nigel, his voice brighter than usual, as he stood with his arm in a sling, looking at Ethel. She lifted a pair of wet cheeks.

"I'm going in to see Tom. You can reassure her yourself," cheerily observed Mr. Elvey, who, being the most innocent of men, never suspected anybody of growing up or wishing to marry. Ethel and Nigel were "the children" to him still. But as he turned away, his grasp fell upon the young man's shoulder, and "God bless you!" went with it.

"I'm not the worse, really. It is nothing—not worth your caring about," Nigel said to Ethel, though the fact of her so caring was worth a great deal to him. "Come here for a minute—won't you?" and he opened the dining-room door. "It was a shock, I dare say, to hear about Fulvia. Things might have been serious if we had not had the river so near; but I don't think she will suffer, after a good night's rest."

"Yes—Fulvia. Oh yes," murmured Ethel, trying to recover herself. "Yes—but it must have been danger—"

"Would have been, without the river—for Fulvia, I mean. Not for me. In the water—no. I am a good swimmer. Even if she had pulled me under, there were plenty at hand to help. Malcolm was wild for a bath."

"I wish I had been there."

"It's a good thing you were not. That was the first moment I could be glad we had left you at home. I shouldn't have liked you to be looking on. You might not have been so discreet as Anice and her friend."

"Why, what did they do?"

"The better part of valour! Most wise, others being at hand to help. I'm not sure that you would have been sensible enough to run away."

"Nobody can tell till the moment comes; I think I should have seen that you were hurt."

"Yes—you always see everything. But one didn't want Fulvia to be more upset than she was. How have you got on at home—with—?"

"Oh, very well. We've done lots of botany." Ethel's face lighted up with fun, and Nigel thought it was with a recollection of enjoyment. He suddenly remembered Tom Elvey, and Fulvia's words about Tom.

Then, before the two could arrive at an understanding, Lance dashed in, shouting a string of inquiries about the day's adventure; and the little tête-à-tête was over.

[CHAPTER XI]

"THE WORLD FORGETTING"

"'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates,
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls, a soft murmur, on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all."
—COWPER.

AT the mouth of the river upon which Newton Bury was built, and an hour or more distant by train from Newton Bury, was a certain small town, Burrside by name, the pet watering-place of the Newton Bury people. In summer, Burrside was gay with brass bands, and well-dressed promenaders; in summer therefore it was contemptuously eschewed by Mr. Carden-Cox. But in winter, when nobody went to Burrside, when it was transformed into an Arabia Deserta of empty lodgings and unfrequented streets, then Mr. Carden-Cox was given to betaking himself thither for a week or a fortnight of blissful quiet—"the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

It is not at all disagreeable to be forgotten by the world for a few days, just when one happens to be in the right mood. Not that Mr. Carden-Cox ever did forget the world of human beings to which he belonged, or ever really believed that the said world forgot him; but he thought he did, which came to much the same thing.

On such occasions, he found it agreeable to hug his solitude, to muse over the peculiarities of his own nature, to admire his own individuality of taste in thus fleeing the world, and to picture what friends might be saying about his absence. A curious mode of "forgetting the world"; but few people carry out their theories consistently.

One or two weeks ended, Mr. Carden-Cox's gregarious side was wont to come uppermost. By that time he had usually had enough of solitude, and was glad to return to his circle of acquaintances, finding a new pleasure in relating to them his Burrside experiences. Some of the said acquaintances privately called this return "coming out of his sulks," and nothing could persuade those unreasonable people that he had not fled in a huff. But nobody ever ventured to hint to himself that such an interpretation of his lofty communing with Nature was a possibility.

Just before the steam-boat excursion, and indeed before the day of Nigel's arrival was known, Mr. Carden-Cox had decided on a trip to Burrside. He and one of the Churchwardens had had a "tiff" on the subject of certain Church funds, and Mr. Carden-Cox had come off worst in the encounter. The said Churchwarden was a good man, albeit somewhat blunt; and Mr. Carden-Cox was not always in the right; but as an immediate result of the affair, he grew tired of the Newton Bury world, and resolved to flee.

Nigel's arrival altered the complexion of things, and slew his desire for solitude. However, Mr. Carden-Cox disliked to change his plans; it looked "unsettled" to do so, and he counted "unsettledness" tantamount to weakness. So he merely deferred the trip for a few days, and then vanished. Nobody saw him later than the morning after the steam-yacht excursion.

Once at Burrside, he liked the change, as usual, after a fashion. Banishment from the conventional round of commonplaces was in theory agreeable to him; and the Burrside natives, if commonplace, were not conventional. Mr. Carden-Cox found their simplicity delightful. He never grew weary of the old sailor on the shore, who knew Nigel and could talk of Nigel by the hour together; and his landlady from the same cause was a perpetual pleasure. The landlady, a highly respectable woman, looked upon him with a touch of compassionate interest, as "not quite all right there!" But this he could not guess, and she did her best for his comfort.

Mr. Carden-Cox was a man greatly addicted to letter-writing. He had not much to do besides, except to take care of himself, and to sit in judgment upon others—an employment in which he was a proficient. Idleness was abhorrent to him, and enforced work hardly less so, while letter-writing exactly suited his nervous nature and dilettante tastes. He could begin and leave off when he liked, could write as much or as little on any one subject as he chose, could be secure against interruption and opposition, at least till he had said his say; could expatiate to any extent on his own feelings; and above all, could indulge in a comfortable belief in the overcrowded state of his time. Let him write as many letters as he would, there were always more which might be written; and until Mr. Carden-Cox should achieve the impossible horizon-chase of "no further demands" in the correspondence line, he was enough pressed with business to be able to grumble. What true Englishman could want more?

"My letters are legion—legion!" he groaned complacently, surveying the pile beside his breakfast-plate, three mornings after his arrival at Burrside.

"Legion!" he repeated, looking at his landlady for sympathy, as she placed a covered dish upon the table; for even in the enjoyment of solitude somebody to be appealed to is necessary, and he had nobody else.

Mrs. Simmons was commonplace enough, being of no particular age, and having no particular features; but she was not, for all that, without her own individuality.

"Legion!" reiterated Mr. Carden-Cox. "How would you like to have all these to answer?" He lifted the pile as he spoke, weighing it in both hands, with a deprecating and mournful smile. He would by no means have liked not "to have all these to answer"; but none the less, he pitied himself.

Mrs. Simmons smoothed down a corner of the tablecloth, which had "got rucked up," as she expressed it. "I'm sure I don't know how ever I should get through 'em, sir, what with the dusting and cooking," she said.

"Cooking! Ah!—" Mr. Carden-Cox answered with mild benignity.

He knew enough about cooking to believe that a joint would "do" itself, if left before the fire, and that a pudding could be tossed together in five minutes. It seemed absurd to think that dusting or cooking could hinder correspondence, though he would not hurt Mrs. Simmons's feelings by suggesting that she over-estimated her vocation.

"Ah!—" he repeated. "Yes. No doubt. But the Penny Post is a great burden, a great burden. You and I can hardly be thankful enough that in our young days no Penny Post existed. We were spared that trouble."

Mrs. Simmons might be of no particular age, but she was not so old as Mr. Carden-Cox; and naturally she resented being placed on his level.

"Indeed, sir, I don't pretend to be able to go back to them days," she said with emphasis. "And I don't say but what the Penny Post has got its good points; not but what it's got its bad points too. As my father was used to say; for he did live in the times when there wasn't none."

"Everything in life has its advantages and its disadvantages," Mr. Carden-Cox said, looking at her with his bright eyes, as he weighed the postal delivery still. "The question in any particular case is—which overbalances the other? Do the advantages more than compensate for the disadvantages, or vice versa? You perceive? Sometimes there seems to be a complete balance of forces—an equilibrium—the scale will not incline either way."

"No, sir," assented Mrs. Simmons, anxious to escape before she should find herself in a mental quagmire.

"Nothing then remains but to hold one's opinion in abeyance, till one side or the other sinks. You understand?"

"To be sure, sir!" Mrs. Simmons answered, with a heartiness which might almost have meant comprehension. "Poor gentleman!" she was saying to herself. "No, he isn't quite all right there; but I've got to humour him."

"You are a sensible woman; a very sensible woman, Mrs. Simmons," Mr. Carden-Cox stated approvingly. "It is a relief to find one of your sex who can listen to logic, without argumentative opposition."

Mrs. Simmons liked this. "My mother was a sensible woman, sir," she averred, delaying her flight.

"Probably. Like mother, like daughter. But about the Penny Post—that would be a case in point." Mrs. Simmons backed. "The advantages and disadvantages being about equal, one could neither wish to have it done away, nor—" Mr. Carden-Cox paused to examine the handwriting of the uppermost envelope, "nor—I was about to say—"

Mrs. Simmons was gone, and Mr. Carden-Cox never finished his sentence.

He sighed, sat down, enjoyed a cutlet and a cup of coffee, then applied himself slowly to the day's business. As a rule, he delved from top to bottom of the pile with exemplary orderliness; but this morning his weighing process had shaken out a thick envelope, addressed in Daisy's childish handwriting, which proved irresistible. Mr. Carden-Cox drew out the sheet, propped it against the toast-rack, and began to read his favourite's effusion.

"MY DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Fulvie wants me to answer your note, and to tell you all about everybody, as she isn't well enough. She's not ill, I suppose, but she is awfully seedy somehow—hasn't been out of her room since the boat day. Cousin Jamie says it is the chill and the shock. And mother is worried, and father is depressed, and Nigel's hand doesn't get on; so we are in a sort of hospital state.
"Fulvia and Nigel want padre very much to consult cousin Jamie about himself, and he won't. At least he says 'some day, perhaps,' and he keeps putting it off. He is talking again about going abroad, and I can't think what for. It is such a stupid time of the year for going abroad—nothing to see or do. We think he wants to escape Fulvie's birthday, but why should he? Of course we must give up making a fuss, if he isn't well and doesn't like it. At least Fulvie says so.
"I slept in Fulvie's room last night, because she seemed to need somebody, and she did nothing but talk and ramble about all sorts of nonsense, and call out to Nigel to help her. I suppose she fancied she was burning or drowning, by the things she said.
"I believe she thinks herself worse than she really is; for last night she seized hold of me, and said, 'Daisy, if I die, tell Nigel—' and then she went off into a mutter. I said, 'You're not going to die; nonsense, Fulvie, it is just a cold!' But she did not hear me, and began again, 'Tell Nigel, he and Ethel—he and Ethel—' and then she burst out crying, and she did cry so! I asked her what she meant about Nigel and Ethel, and Fulvie said, 'Oh, when he marries Ethel—and when I'm dead!' I couldn't get her to say anything more that was rational, except, 'Nobody knows—nobody must know,' and she sobbed herself off into a sort of stupid state, not like sleep.
"This morning I told her what she had said, and she wouldn't believe me. She was angry, and she asked how I could be so ridiculous. Then she said I had been dreaming, and she made me promise not to tell madre, or Nigel, or cousin Jamie. Of course we don't tell anything to padre, and Anice is no good; but I'm sure somebody ought to know the sort of state she is in, and so I thought I would tell you, because we always tell you nearly everything in our house. Only please don't let out that I have said so much.
"I wonder if Nigel ever will marry Ethel. Don't you? I like Ethel very much. He is always going there, and trying to see her; but Ethel has so much to do that I don't believe he very often succeeds, and then he looks melancholy. And mother is so unhappy whenever he goes. I do wish mother didn't mind everything so much. I mean to give up minding things, and to take everything just as it comes. And I don't mean ever to worry mother by caring too much for anybody. But I don't think Nigel notices how she feels, exactly as he used to do.
"I meant to tell you lots more, but there is no time, and I must stop. Mother wants me for something.—Ever yours affectionately,
"DAISY BROWNING."

Mr. Carden-Cox sat for ten minutes in a brown study. Then he rang for the removal of the breakfast things, and turned over the pile of letters remaining. Among them, he found a short note from Nigel, written with the left hand, and a few lines from Ethel.

"DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Can you give me the name of that law-book which you mentioned on the boat? I want to read it. Excuse this scrawl.
"Fulvia seems poorly still—cannot leave her room.—Ever yours,
"N. B."

"DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Could you possibly let my father have your magic-lantern next week? It is asking a great deal at short notice, but he wants to get up the Infants' Treat earlier than was intended, and we have so little time to arrange anything.
"We are very sorry Fulvia is so ill. Of course you hear all about everything, or else I would tell you more. Nigel seems rather anxious about her, but I do not know that anybody else is. His hand is bad still.—Believe me, yours sincerely,
"ETHEL ELVEY."

In answer to these Mr. Carden-Cox wrote, with great deliberation, three letters, and also a fourth to Fulvia. By inserting a good deal of chit-chat, he managed to fill up exactly one sheet to each, signing his name at the bottom of the fourth page.

Then he fell into a state of flurry, and scribbled four postscripts on four additional half-sheets. His state of mind was shown by the fact that, instead of writing P.S. at the top of each half-sheet, he wrote N.B., not discovering his own blunder. After all, the one was as good as the other, though unusual. He thrust the postscripts into the four stamped and addressed envelopes, paying small heed to the addresses, and hurried to the post-box round a near corner. Not unnaturally, each postscript went to a wrong destination.

[CHAPTER XII]

NOTA BENE!

"It is sometimes a very trifle from whence great temptations proceed. And whilst I think myself somewhat safe, when I least expect it, I find myself sometimes overcome with a small blast."—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

THESE were the postscripts, indited by Mr. Carden-Cox upon four half-sheets, in his state of mental flurry, and thrust into the wrong envelopes.

To Nigel: sent by mistake to Fulvia.

"N.B.—One line more. My dear fellow, you do not really mean to go in for law before Christmas!—just home from your world-tour. Most exemplary, of course; but is it necessary? I do not wish to act the part of an old hinderer in suggesting delay, still—nobody has seen you yet, and everybody wants to hear everything that you have done. After Christmas you will be going, no doubt, to Oxford; and later on will come the crucial question as to your career—the Bar or no! I say yes; but your father says no; and after all the decision must rest with him. Happily there is time enough. Meanwhile we have to think of Fulvia's twenty-first birthday. I want to make something of that affair, if your father will let us. He seems strangely averse.
"Are you sure that your mind is free at this moment for law studies? Well, well, I must not inquire too closely. But I can tell you, if that comes about, the dearest hopes of your father and of myself will be fulfilled. I have set my heart upon it, ever since you and the little Fulvia trotted about hand-in-hand, in your frocks and knickerbockers. You two always suited each other. And not to speak of Fulvia's money, which is a consideration, for undoubtedly your father's embarrassments have increased—not to speak of that, for you are not one to marry for money, Fulvia will be a good wife, true and unselfish. I shall not soon forget your leap into the river, with Fulvia in your arms. It seemed to me a happy augury for the future. Was it not so to you? One knows well enough how you feel—how you must feel—for the good girl whom you rescued—but not all young fellows have such an opportunity of putting their feelings into action. She is a good girl, and you are a good boy; and I wish you both happiness, with all my heart—you and her together."

To Daisy: sent by mistake to Ethel.

"N.B.—One word more. As for what you say about Nigel, that is all nonsense. Don't trouble your little head; what do you know of such matters? He will marry no doubt some day, but not in that direction. So Fulvia is very poorly, and rambles at night. Yes, I dare say; it was a shock to her, of course. Mind, Nigel must not know how she calls for him. Won't do to hinder matters by pressing them on. Young men like to be let alone, and not interfered with. But you are a sensible and womanly girl, and I don't mind saying to you that that is what his father and I most want for him. I have the greatest esteem for the other good girl; and she is an uncommonly good girl; but all the same it wouldn't do. Wouldn't do for a moment. Nigel will never marry her, unless in direct opposition to his father; and he is not that sort, you know. Nor does he really wish it, though there may once have been a passing fancy. Fulvia is made for him. Mind—all this in strict confidence. Not a word to any one; least of all to E. E. You are a good little Daisy, and I trust you."

To Ethel: sent by mistake to Daisy.

"N.B.—I am sorry, by-the-bye, to hear such poor accounts of Fulvia. But I hope she will soon pick up again. She must feel gratified by the manner of her rescue. Devotion could scarcely have been more plainly shown. She and that boy have always been much one to another. I have often hoped that the 'much' would grow into more. In fact, his father and I quite agree on that point—about the only point, between ourselves, on which Browning and I ever did agree. This in confidence. You are enough of a friend to Nigel to be able to rejoice in the prospect of his happy future. Tell Mr. Elvey I am delighted that he should use my magic-lantern as often as he likes."

To Fulvia: sent by mistake to Nigel.

"N.B.—One word more to my dear Fulvia. I am sorry to hear that your faithful knight has not yet regained the use of his hand. But never mind! He will count it worth his while. What brave knight ever yet shrank from fire or water for the sake of his faire ladye? Well, I must not joke you; but it is easy to guess how he feels—good boy!"

The four letters with their ill-fitting postscripts reached Newton Bury that same evening, being faithfully delivered according to their several addresses; three at the Grange, one at the Rectory.

"A perfect cartload from Mr. Carden-Cox," Nigel remarked. He read his own sheet quickly through, wondering how any sensible and intellectual man could manage to say so little, in so many words. If it had been a woman, or even a brainless man—but Mr. Carden-Cox was not a woman, nor was he brainless. Nigel then turned to the postscript, with a preliminary laugh at the N.B., and a final pause at the sixth word.

"Hallo! This is not for me? Here, Daisy," folding the half-sheet and tossing it towards her, "it is Fulvia's, not mine!"

Daisy was screwing up her big childish forehead in perplexity. "How funny!" she commented aloud, over her half-sheet. "He doesn't write like that to me generally. Why, I declare—if it isn't to Ethel!"

"What?"

"Mr. Carden-Cox has sent me a wrong piece. It's to Ethel, not to me. A sort of postscript. How stupid!—And I never guessed till I got to the end. Yes, I read it, of course. How could I tell? It might have been all in answer to my letter, only it's not exactly how he always writes. Speaking of padre as 'Browning' and—"

"Stop you've no business to repeat a word. It was not meant for your eyes."

"No; to be sure. Well, we must send it on to Ethel, I suppose."

"Put it up in an envelope. I'll take it at once, and explain."

Daisy obeyed with promptitude. Nobody else was present to remonstrate. Mr. and Mrs. Browning were in the study, and Anice was with Fulvia. Dinner would not be until eight o'clock; and it was now only a few minutes after seven.

"That is Fulvia's. You had better carry it upstairs. Don't forget," Nigel said, indicating the folded half-sheet, as Daisy handed to him a closed envelope, addressed "Miss Elvey."

"Yes, I will—I mean, I won't forget. Tell Ethel I'm very sorry I read hers. How odd of Mr. Carden-Cox! Why didn't he take more care? Perhaps there's a half-sheet to you, sent to Fulvia by mistake."

"No; Anice would have brought it down by this time."

Nigel was pulling on his greatcoat, when the study door opened, and Mrs. Browning glided out. "It is raining fast. Where are you going?" she asked.

"To rectify a blunder."

"Mother—Mr. Carden-Cox has made such a mistake," exclaimed Daisy, hanging over the balusters. "He has sent part of a letter to me which ought to have gone to Ethel, and another part to Nigel which is meant for Fulvia. Isn't it queer? Just as if he had got all the letters mixed up in a jumble. I'm taking Fulvia hers, and Nigel is taking Ethel's."

A shadow fell upon Mrs. Browning's face. "Always the Rectory!" she said.

"I shall not be long, mother."

She retreated into the study, and Nigel went off—something of the shadow falling on him; he could hardly have defined how or why.

Fulvia's letter had gone straight to her, on its first arrival. She was seated in her bedroom, by the fire, wearing a pale blue dressing-gown. The reddish hair, knotted lightly behind, fell low in masses. Though not ill enough to stay in bed all day, she was by no means well enough to be about the house. She looked thin and flushed.

Anice was leaving the room to get a book, at the moment of the maid's entry with the letter, and Fulvia said, "Don't hurry, I am all right."

"I don't mean to be long," Anice replied.

But Fulvia was alone when she opened the envelope. Out of it dropped the sheet and also the half-sheet, both closely covered by Mr. Carden-Cox's minute and precise handwriting.

Some impulse made Fulvia turn first to the half-sheet; and in a moment she saw that it was not intended for herself. She glanced at the sheet—yes, that began all right, "My dear Fulvia;" but this had "My dear fellow."

Fulvia read on, notwithstanding. A kind of fascination seemed to hold her eyes to the page. It was fascination which might have been, and ought to have been, resisted. Conscience cried loudly, yet she did not resist. She read on straight and fast to the end.

A gleam came to her eyes, and a glow to her cheeks. For some seconds she had only one distinct sense—that of an overwhelming joy. Nothing else could matter now—now—if Nigel and she were to be one! The wish of his father!—The wish of Mr. Carden-Cox!—The desire of Nigel himself!—What then could hinder?

But upon this came a rush of yet more overwhelming shame at her own action, seen in imagination with Nigel's eyes. The shame bowed her forward, till her face rested upon her knees, and the flush of joy deepened into a fixed burning of brow and cheeks. What had she done? What had she been about? Nigel's letter!—But she could not let Nigel have it! He must never know that her eyes had read those words—Oh, never! Cold chills shot through her at the very thought.

Anice was coming back. Fulvia heard the approaching steps, and dire need brought composure. She thrust the half-sheet deep into a pocket of her dressing-gown, pushed away the candle that her face might be in shade, and began quietly to read her own letter.

"From Mr. Carden-Cox?" asked Anice, recognising the cramped hand. "Anything particular?"

"Nothing much. Just chit-chat! He seems getting tired of Burrside already."

"He always does in a day or two."

"Or a week or two."

Unobservant Anice noticed nothing unusual in Fulvia's shaking hands or crimson face; but the next moment Daisy rushed in.

"Oh, did I make a noise? I'm sorry. I quite forgot. Why, Fulvie—what a colour you are! As red as beetroot! Cousin Jamie would say you were feverish."

"Nonsense. What have you there?"

"Only a postscript from Mr. Carden-Cox for you. It went to Nigel by mistake. I can't imagine what Mr. Carden-Cox has been about. He sent another to me instead of to Ethel. You haven't one too, I suppose, meant for somebody else? Only that sheet—" as Fulvia pointed to the one lying on her knee. "Fulvie! I say! I'm sure you are not so well this evening. What is the matter? Anything Mr. Carden-Cox has said? I shall have to call madre. Why, your hands are like fire, and beating as if they were alive. I can feel them."

Fulvia snatched the said hands petulantly away.

"Nonsense! Don't. I wish you would not tease. I will not have a word said to madre, and I only want to be quiet. There is such an amount of talk and bustle, and my head is wild."

Daisy grew gentle. "I'm sorry. We won't talk any more," she said in a penitent voice. "Fulvie, if you just get into bed, I'll only help you and not say a word. Please do."