Three of these small dark fields had to be crossed, surrounded by houses and gardens, but in themselves lonely and deserted. They reached the gate of the kitchen garden, still in silence. The Rectory windows shone with varied lights. Nigel paused beside the gate, and Ethel forced herself to say steadily— "Thank you for coming so far. I shall be all right now. Good-bye." She put out her hand, and he held it in a passionate clasp. There was a struggle, but no words would come. Ethel stood still, tears running down her cheeks. What could she do or say to comfort him? "Ethel!—Ethel! My love!" broke out at length. "No—no—you must not say that! Don't say any more!" "Ethel—!" came hoarsely again, despite her entreaty; and she could feel the shaking of the gate against which he leant. "No—no—" she repeated. "Not now—not any more. I must not let you say what you will be sorry for by-and-by. Don't—please! I think I am glad we have had this talk, because—because I shall understand. We will never speak of it again. By-and-by we shall be—friends—like other people." There was a negative movement on his part. "Yes—I think so. You have to do what is right—about—and we will be brave—we shall be helped. Doesn't God always help, if—if one wills to do right? Perhaps a little hard for you—for us—at first, but that won't last. It will be all right." Ethel could not bear much more. She had kept up well so far; but reaction was at hand. The interview had to be ended; and the sooner the better. "I must not stay!" she said. And then, without warning, unexpectedly, she broke down. "Nigel—let me go!" she sobbed. Nigel mastered himself for her sake. "I have been wrong—unkind!" he said. "It has been too much for you." "Oh no; only I can't bear to see you so unhappy. Please—please let me go." "I shall see you again soon. This isn't really—" and a falter. "Yes, we will be—friends." Then he wrung her hand once more, and was lost in the darkness—not to return to the Grange till late at night. He had to fight his battle out alone. But Ethel could have no such relief. Ten minutes of bitter weeping she did allow herself in the lonely garden. Then she was obliged to hasten home, to wash away traces of tears, to evade family inquiries, to elude Tom's troublesome solicitude, to spend a cheerful evening—no easy task under the circumstances. CHAPTER XXIV WOULD SHE? COULD SHE? "It may be hard to gain, and still To keep a lowly steadfast heart; Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part."—A. A. PROCTER. "FULVIA!" "Yes." "There is a house in Bourne Street—" "Yes." Fulvia spoke curtly, looking up from her work with hard grey eyes. She was alone in the morning-room, and it was Saturday. "I want you to come and see. It might do." "Bourne Street!" "Not a bad part."