Snow had ceased falling, and a slow thaw had set in, rendering the streets slushy, while the air was full of cold moisture. Fulvia and Daisy braved the weather in a brisk morning walk; Anice remaining indoors as a matter of course. Fulvia had hoped for Nigel's company, and was disappointed, for he vanished. Where he went he did not say, and Fulvia had learned not to question him; she was not one who needed the same lesson twice over. At luncheon, he looked sunnier than ever; yet Mr. Browning was still in complete retirement. None but his wife had spoken to him. More oddly, Mr. Carden-Cox had not appeared, and this perplexed everybody. "Why, he always gives Fulvia something nice," protested the aggrieved Daisy, desiring excitement. "Surely he won't forget! And doesn't father mean to speak to Fulvia? So odd! On her birthday! As if she were in disgrace!" "He will do as he chooses," Fulvia answered. It was getting on for the time of afternoon tea; and the aspect of the Newton Bury atmosphere, through glass panes, was not inviting. Nigel had been upstairs since lunch, supposed to be reading; and the three girls were spending their afternoon over the drawing-room fire, having indulged themselves into a state of easy-chair inertia. Even Fulvia was not proof against the lazy mood—until Nigel appeared. She brightened up then, and replied to Daisy's complaints with her usual elastic air. "Of course he will. Everybody does," said Daisy. "But I don't see that people ought. I think he ought to come out of his den for just a little while. Nigel! What have you got? Chestnuts! How lovely! We'll have some fun now!" Plainly this was Nigel's object. He was a very boy again in the next half-hour, helping Daisy to balance chestnuts on the hot bars, watching for the critical moment of "done enough and not too much," using Daisy's fingers in pretence, and scorching his own in reality. He and Daisy were down on the rug together, and shouts of laughter sounded, when Mrs. Browning came with her soft lagging step and sweet graciousness. "I have persuaded your father to take a cup of tea with us here," she said to the group. "He is very sad to-day, but he liked to hear your merry voices, and indeed he proposed it himself. It is such weather, we shall have no callers." "Don't stop laughing, pray, when he appears," whispered Fulvia; and they did not, but the real ring of mirth was gone. Mr. Browning's heavy steps and down-drawn mouth-comers were not provocative of fun. He looked both ill and wretched. Fulvia was the first to spring up in welcome. She gave him a daughterly kiss, made him sit in the chair she had occupied, chatted about weather and chestnuts, tried to make it seem that nothing was further from her thoughts than the remembrance of her own age. Mr. Browning seemed relieved, and he even smiled dimly at one or two of Nigel's sallies. "Hallo, Daisy! That fellow's rolling! He'll be gone!"