When almost close to the Rectory gate, he saw in the lamplight a slight cloaked figure run out. "Ethel!" passed his lips, but he was not heard. She crossed the road, battling her way with difficulty, and he followed, overtaking her at the vestry door, where three stops led upwards. As she mounted them, a gust of snow-laden wind swirled round the corner, carrying her off her feet. She threw out both hands with a little cry, as if gasping for support; and before she could go down, Nigel had her. "Oh, thanks!" she gasped, conscious of the friendly clutch, not in the least recognising her deliverer. The short struggle had rendered her breathless, and he held her still while helping to open the door. So far he said nothing, and Ethel made no inquiry. It was pitch-dark. She could not see his outline, and she believed the helping hand, which had saved her from a fall, to be the sexton's. That the sexton should be just then on the spot was at least not more unlikely than that anybody else should. Nigel went inside with her, and shut the door, while Ethel struck a light. In one corner of the vestry lay a heap of holly. "How kind of you to be so quick!" she said gratefully, turning to her companion. "I thought I was—Nigel!—" Ethel was completely taken by surprise. Her face coloured up for once brilliantly, and a light shone in her eyes. Nobody was at hand who could misconstrue her manner—nobody except Nigel himself. At the moment, somehow, she did not fear him. His appearance was so unexpected; she had not time to think of Mr. Carden-Cox or Fulvia, so had not leisure to shape her welcome. There was a ring of gladness in the utterance of his name which brought to Nigel's mind their first meeting after his year of absence, and made his heart spring with hope. "I thought I might find you in to-day," he said. "Such weather! And then I saw you coming here." "So you came too?" "Yes, I came too. It was you I wanted to see," pointedly. "Not—" and a pause. "I only ran over just to do a little of this—" Ethel glanced at the holly. "We always start it rather early; and if the snow keeps on, I can't depend upon all my helpers. So I thought I would begin a piece of wreathing. But I am afraid it was not really that—not only that, I mean," looking up at Nigel with the old half-roguish frankness. "I was so tired of poor old Tom." "Were you?" Nigel's whole frame was in a glow. "Yes, only you must not tell anybody. I wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world. But I really could not stand it any longer. Always those dreadful herbariums and specimens and Latin names. He is content with nothing short of five syllables and what Lance calls 'a Latin sneeze' at the end." "A sneeze!" "Papaveraceœ!" instanced Ethel, with a mischievous transposition of the last syllable into an imitation of the catarrhic "tshyee!"