"Nigel, stop him! He must not," whispered Fulvia. "Padre dear, don't! Don't!" she went on aloud. "You will be worse. Can't you rest now?" "Forgiveness," he panted. "Yes, oh yes—don't ask again!" But a solemn sound came into Mr. Browning's voice as he went on, "Forgiveness with Thee—Thee!—That Thou mayest be feared! My God, Thou knowest have repented—bitterly—most bitterly!" A sob interrupted the words. With a sudden effort, he took Fulvia's left hand and placed it in Nigel's right hand. "We owe her much," he said. Then the troubled eyes turned to Fulvia. "He will make up to you—my child—for everything! You will be his own—his own! But for that, how—how could I bear it? Nigel, I charge you—never—" Utterance failed. It was an embarrassing moment for both; worse for Nigel, however, than for Fulvia, since she believed Mr. Browning to have only given expression to Nigel's desire. During two seconds her hand lay where it had been put, and she did not look at Nigel. A flush rose to her very brow; the downcast eyes brightened; the lips parted with joy. Nigel saw, and his heart died within him. What was he to do? How could he explain?—Yet how could he not explain? Strange to say, she did not miss the response which she might have expected. At the first instant, when her hand touched his, and he little dreamt what was coming, Nigel's fingers had closed with a slight, kind grasp, merely as an expression of gratitude. Then, as he heard, he saw his mistake. Something had to be said, but what? That was the question. Nigel could not answer it. He was almost stunned. Yet he would have said something—anything—the first words which should spring—but there came an ominous sound, hardly a groan, hardly a gasp. Fulvia's glad colour faded, and she snatched her hand away to give the needed support, thereby releasing Nigel. For Mr. Browning was dropping forward, lower and lower, breathless, voiceless, changed in look. Nothing could be done. There was no time to summon Dr. Duncan, no time to warn his wife. Even as Fulvia started to Mr. Browning's help, all was over. CHAPTER XIX THE MONEY! "I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou would'st take from me Aught of its load; I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet; For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead— Lead me aright; Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed, Through Peace to Light."—A. A. PROCTER. STRANGE to say—or others thought it strange—Nigel was more knocked down by the blow than almost any one.