Then came a long low monotone, broken by sobs, all about Albert Browning, her husband—his character, his goodness, his devotion to wife and children, together with details of his suffering state during weeks past, and conjectures as to the cause of his long depression, varied by soft reverent utterances regarding his present rest, the contrast of his present peace, and how they must not grieve for him too much. It was all very sweet; just like gentle Mrs. Browning. She was a very embodiment of sweet gentleness, sitting there, with her little nervous snowflakes of hands clasped together, and her lovely eyes wide-open, sometimes filling with great tears; but also it was very trying to other people. Fulvia began to wonder how much longer it was to go on. She grew impatient, even while most stirred by those reverent and resigned utterances in the madre's dear tones. Any amount for herself would have been endurable; but she was enduring for Nigel also. He was quiet enough, even impassive, only saying a word now and then when needful; still, Fulvia had a very good notion of what the interview was to him. In a general way she would not have allowed it to last five minutes. Now, however, she was under constraint; afraid of taking a wrong step. If Nigel should not like her to interfere! There came a moment at length when he could bear no more. Mrs. Browning was saying something in her sorrowful voice about—"Your dear father's money anxieties. Always so scrupulously exact and honourable—so distressed if—" Nigel's sudden movement stopped her. It was a start forward to an upright position, as if from some intolerable sting of pain, and he pushed the hair from his forehead, with a restless gesture. Fulvia could restrain herself no longer. "Madre, dear, I think one of us had better be with you now—Daisy or I. Nigel is so tired." "Nigel tired! Are you, my dear? Yes, of course—why did I not see sooner? Do make him rest. I don't want anybody here. Never mind about me. I am of no consequence. How could I be so thoughtless?" "Not thoughtless, indeed," Nigel said, as she broke into a flood of tears. "Fulvia did not mean—" "Oh, I know—I understand. Everybody is kind. But now he is gone I am so desolate. I have nobody but you—nobody to lean upon. Nigel, my own boy, say you will not leave me! Say you will never, never leave me." She clung to him, pleading; and Fulvia felt that in the abstract nothing could be more touching than the poor widow's turning to her boy for comfort. In the particular it was—No, Fulvia would not let herself look on another side of the question. "Mother, you are my charge now," Nigel said with a manly self-control. He would not bind himself with rash promises; but he would assume to the full the responsibility which had fallen upon him.