"I really ought not, I am afraid," protested Nigel, feeling as if the silken pull of Ethel's near presence, together with the Rector's grasp of his arm, were overcoming all his powers of resolution. "My baggage has gone home, and they will be expecting me." "Well, well—we won't keep you three minutes. One shake hands all round. Why, what brought you here, if it wasn't for that? Ethel, Ethel!—Gilbert—Ralph—Lance—My dear!—" this meant his wife—"I've found an old friend in the garden, and he's trying to elope. Guess who! Open the door—somebody!" They were almost under the window by this time, and Mr. Elvey did not need to raise his tones; indeed, the full impressive voice was used enough to making itself heard, and no barrier of glass intervened. "What does he mean?" they heard Ethel ask merrily. And in another moment she stood at the open hall door scanning the outside darkness. She was plainly visible herself under the hall light. Nigel knew in a moment that the face which he had carried with him through his wanderings was unchanged—only a little developed, a little ripened, "prettier than ever," he told himself. Yet people in general did not count Ethel pretty. She had to be known intimately to be admired; and after all "pretty" was not the right word. She wore an old dress, much older than anybody would have guessed from its appearance, since Ethel's fingers were gifted in the art of renovation. The shape of her face was that "short oval" which novelists are now so careful to distinguish from the unlovely "long oval." Brown hair was massed on the top of her head, straying over the brow, and brown fringes subdued the sparkling sunny eyes. The features could not be called good, and it was commonly a pale face, with none of Anice's quick changes of hue. Nigel, however, could never think that anything was wanting in that direction. He would not have had a line or a tint altered. He had not spoken of his love to any human being. With all Nigel's frankness, there were reserve-depths below. He could not readily talk of the things which he felt most intensely. Some people no doubt can; but Nigel could not. Whether others had guessed his secret before he left home, he had no means of knowing. Sometimes he thought that his mother had; and sometimes also he felt sure that his trip round the world had been arranged for him, not only on account of his health, but in reference to this. He had a strong impression that Mr. Browning had desired for him the test of a year's separation from Ethel. But these ideas he kept to himself. The year's separation had been lived through, and had made no difference. Ethel was dearer to him than ever. "Father, did you say somebody was come? Who is it? Oh!—Nigel!!" The lighting up of her face was worth seeing; and the little gasp of joy between those two words was worth hearing. Nobody thought anything of her delight; for had not she and Nigel been close friends from childhood? And was it not natural?