But Fulvia never left Mr. Browning, and he could scarcely endure to have Nigel out of his sight. It fell to those two to watch side by side through many long hours of that trying day—trying to both, but most so to Nigel. For Fulvia was in her element, and Nigel's presence meant rest to her; while the sight of what Mr. Browning had to bear racked Nigel's powers of endurance to the utmost. He did not give in; and Fulvia, herself absolutely unwearied in the necessities of her position and in the comfort of having him there, did not realise the severity of the tax upon one unused to sick-rooms. About three o'clock in the afternoon Dr. Duncan came in. He said little beyond giving needful directions, and promising to return soon—"in a couple of hours or so." Fulvia thought his look not hopeful. "Have you seen madre?" she asked. "Yes; she tried to get up and fainted. I have ordered her to bed. She can do no more." Soon after, unexpectedly, Mr. Browning dropped asleep, leaning forward on a pillow, his forehead against a chair-back. Fulvia had knelt at his right hand a few minutes earlier, and she remained fixed in that position, not daring to stir. Nigel had taken a seat not a yard distant where he had been off and on through the day. A glance of hope was exchanged between the two, and Fulvia, noting Nigel's wearied look, signed to him to leave the room, but the sign was disregarded. Neither of them stirred. Twenty minutes of repose: surely this meant recovery. Fulvia's face grew bright, Nigel's less harassed. The sufferer seemed peaceful, and breathed more easily, not struggling. Then he woke, and the first words were, "Nigel! Call Nigel." "I am here, father." Nigel rose and came nearer, glad to have stayed. "My dear, dear boy!" Mr. Browning said feebly. "A little better?" Nigel asked. "I don't know. Just at this moment—perhaps—" He looked from one to the other in a wistful troubled fashion, strangely, too, as if gazing from a distance. "Something I had to say," he murmured. "If I were not so—so weak—" "You must not talk, padre," said Fulvia. A great agony came into his face, changing its very form. "Fulvie, forgive—forgive," he groaned. "Don't, padre—oh don't," she cried. "Don't think—don't worry yourself; only get well, for madre's sake." "No, no; you do not know," he panted. "It was not—was not—intention." "What was not intention?" Nigel asked, before Fulvia could speak. And a moan was the answer. "This must not go on." Fulvia spoke in a clear voice. "Padre, listen—don't be distressed. I forgive anything—everything—no matter what—if there is anything to forgive. And you are to feel happy—you understand? Not to worry yourself. Things will be all right." "No, no. Wronged! Wronged!" They could hardly catch what he said. Then, with more distinct utterance— "My dear child! My own dear child! No—not intention—folly and weakness—not wilful. HE will forgive—I think—I trust—but—the misery and loss—"