Mrs. Browning learnt some sharp lessons watching by the sick girl. It was difficult to fathom the meaning of her rapid unconscious utterances; but one thing at least was plain—that Fulvia had been, and was, terribly unhappy. The engagement which Mrs. Browning and her husband, as well as Mr. Carden-Cox, had been so anxious to bring about, was not a success. Nigel's spiritless gravity had long been in itself a silent rebuke; and Fulvia's broken mournful complaints struck even more keenly home; since their wish to press matters forward had been, at least in a measure, for Fulvia's sake. Better far, for all concerned, if they had been content to leave uncertainties in the hands of One who sees the end from the beginning. We are all too apt to think that we can arrange the lives of those around us: and our meddling often only mars what we would fain set right. Mrs. Browning knew this at last; and the gentle woman grieved sorely, though in silence, over her past mistakes. But at least she did not make the fresh mistake of interfering anew. Fulvia had now been allowed for several days to go downstairs, and had even had a short drive or two; nevertheless, she had not yet seen Nigel. He had left home a fortnight earlier, a holiday being kindly arranged for him by Mr. Bramble, that he might try to shake off the unconquerable lassitude which for weeks had weighed him down. Every one thought him looking ill, and this had come to Fulvia's ears, though she asked few questions, and, indeed, seldom spoke of him voluntarily. The fortnight of absence being over on this day, exactly seven weeks after the accident, Nigel was expected home. Fulvia sat alone in the study, awaiting his arrival. She looked better in health than might have been expected; which is often the case after a severe illness, with its necessary rest, and petting, and feeding up. Friends are always surprised; but it constantly so happens. Fulvia's complexion was clearer, her eyes were brighter, her cheeks were even a little plumper, than two months ago. Yet she had gone through much suffering, mental as well as physical, and she had come out changed. The gold had been purified in the furnace. Life itself was altered for Fulvia thenceforward. Self's happiness had been her chief aim through past years, side by side, indeed, with kindly thought for others, yet always holding its position. It had seemed to her impossible to live without the thing she craved,—without Nigel. Now a higher and nobler view of life had dawned. The thought of self-sacrifice, as a great joy in life, had come. Once before she had had a glimpse: once, many months earlier, when she had resolved to put aside thoughts of self, and to help forward the happiness of him whom she loved, irrespective of her own desires. That feeble resolution had gone down like a reed before the hurricane rush of strong temptation. She had seen the possible nobleness, but she had not lived it.