rowing within her reach. In this position she cannot see that
Portia has colored warmly, and is watching her with some curiosity.

"You must try to like Fabian," says Dulce, presently. Her voice is sad,
but quite composed. She appears mournful, but not disconcerted. "You
have no doubt heard his unfortunate story from Auntie Maud, and--_you_
believe in him, don't you?" She raises her eyes to her cousin's face.

"I hardly think I have quite heard the story," says Miss Vibart
evasively.

"No? It is a very sad one, and quite unaccountable. If you have heard
anything about it, you have heard all I can tell you. Nothing has ever
been explained; I am afraid now nothing ever will be. It rests as it did
at the beginning--that is the pity of it--but you shall hear."

"Not if it distresses you," says Portia gently. A feeling of utter pity
for Fabian's sister, with all her faith and trust so full upon her at
this moment, touches her keenly. As for the story itself, she has heard
it a score of times, with variations, from Auntie Maud. But then, when
brought to bay, what _can_ one say!

"It will not distress me," says Dulce, earnestly; "and I would so much
rather you knew everything before you meet him. It will make things
smoother. It all happened four long years ago--years that to him must
seem a lifetime. He is twenty-nine now, he was only twenty-five then,
just the time, I suppose, when life should be sweetest."

"It is mere accident makes life sweet at times," says Portia. "It has
nothing to do with years, or place, or beauty. But tell me about your
brother."

"He had just come home for his leave. He was so handsome, and so
happy--without a care on earth--and was such a pet with the men in his
regiment. I was only a child then, but he never seemed too old to talk
to me, or to make me his companion. And then one morning it all
happened; we were at breakfast--as we might be to-morrow"--says poor
Dulce, with a comprehensive gesture, "when one of the men came in and
said somebody wanted to speak to Uncle Christopher. When I think of
it"--with a long-drawn sigh--"my blood seems to run cold. And even now,
whenever Harley comes in at breakfast and bends over Uncle Christopher
in a confidential way to tell him--it may be--about the puppies or the
last filly, a sensation of faintness creeps over me."

"I don't wonder," says Portia, feelingly. "How could one ever forget it?
You are making yourself unhappy; go no farther now, but t