Ethel had not crossed Fulvia's path since the latter was engaged. There had been a singular break in the intercourse between Ethel Elvey and the Brownings, coming about naturally. Ethel caught a bad cold the evening in the cemetery, and was a prisoner for many days after. She could not shake off the cold, and seemed unaccountably poorly, her parents thought. Then the younger boys had slight scarlatina, which made quarantine needful. Ethel nursed the boys, and ended by having it herself, not severely, though she was much pulled down. Dr. Duncan talked of a want of rallying power, and sent her to the sea for a month with the convalescent boys. When she came back, pale and weak still, an opportune invitation arrived from a kind old friend living under the shadow of Snowdon. Certain difficulties existed; but Ethel showed an unwonted eagerness to be absent, and Dr. Duncan was strongly in favour of it. Mr. Elvey took the matter in hand, over-rode all objections, told Ethel to go, and desired her to stay as long as she could. Perhaps he suspected her trouble in some degree. He had surprised her once shedding very bitter tears, after Nigel's engagement had become known, and Ethel had clung to him for comfort, secure of no worrying questions being asked. Mr. Elvey was not far-sighted about such matters, but he had keenness enough to put two and two together when the twos were very plainly written. So Ethel went to Wales, and stayed long away, and Nigel had never once seen or spoken with her since their sorrowful farewell. Better so for them both. Mrs. Browning watched him anxiously these weeks. Somehow she was more strongly alive to the change in him than was Fulvia, perhaps because Fulvia would not let herself see. Mrs. Browning did see. She had a constant feeling that this Nigel was not altogether her Nigel, her boy! She had nothing to complain of definitely. He was very good to her, as to Fulvia; carefully attentive to them both; but the old sunshine was wanting. Life seemed with him to have grown into an embodiment of severe duty, unrelieved by pleasure. There was no relaxing. He worked hard, read hard, walked a certain amount daily, went through a steady routine; but nothing was done lightly. He had never shown so little inclination for talk. Except in the evenings, he was chiefly away, and in the evenings, he always had a book. If Mrs. Browning or Fulvia showed a wish for conversation, he responded kindly, but with a manifest effort, and it never lasted long. Mrs. Browning craved for his old look, his old smile,—craved at times with a passionate longing. She did not know how to give up her former Nigel.