"I see," said Ethel gently. She grew more pale than usual, and there was a curious sense of constriction at her heart, as if a tight band impeded its beating; for she knew what all this meant. "Yes, I see; but you will make your way. Perhaps even—Does Fulvia mind very much?" Nigel could speak more freely now. Once started, he had power to continue, and he even found speech a relief. He seldom felt it so with any one else, but with Ethel he did. Her silent sympathy drew him on. He told her of his father's death; of the dying words spoken to Fulvia and himself; of the hand placed in his; giving details that he had not given even to his mother, only omitting the look of joy on Fulvia's face, which had haunted him ever since. Nigel went through all this in a low monotonous voice, as to a well-tried friend, and Ethel read it so. When he spoke of Fulvia's disinterestedness, she detected a weariness of tone, a want of enthusiasm. He praised her, and was grateful; but the words of praise were measured. Ethel listened patiently, shivering a little. It was dusk by this time, and the grass under their feet was wet. A cemetery is not a warm or cheerful place late on a January afternoon; and Ethel might well be excused for shivering, with the gravestones lying coldly around, while a little tomb of buried girlish hopes was being made in her own girlish heart. It was no wonder that she shivered and looked white. For she understood well whereto all this tended; even before Nigel went on to speak of Mr. Carden-Cox's condition of silence, and of his mother's distress. She understood—first, that he would not be free to marry her; secondly, that he would be called upon to marry some one else. These details took time in the telling, however briefly expressed. No needless words were used; but they did not come fast. While Nigel talked, it never occurred to Ethel that the afternoon was passing fast, that daylight was waning. He came at length to a pause. Now she understood the position of affairs. He had not mentioned, had not directly alluded to, his love for her; but Ethel knew it,—had never known it more surely than in this hour. He had left nothing else out, except the one item of Fulvia's too evident feeling for him; and Ethel could supply this item from her own knowledge. She, too, had noted with observant eyes, since a certain clue had been supplied by a certain mis-sent postscript. As she listened to Nigel, one sentence of that postscript flashed up, with all the force of a prophecy coming true: "Nigel will never marry her!" "Never! Never!" echoed the silent graves and the silent trees. "Never! Never!" The words repeated themselves in Ethel's brain, and twined in and out of the straggling yew branches. "Nigel will never marry her!" Mr. Carden-Cox was taking care to bring his own prophecy to pass. The story was ended, and Nigel's monotonous voice changed. It grew hoarse and troubled as he said— "Ethel, tell me what I ought to do."