with a glance full of sympathy and entreaty. So
standing, with her eyes large and dark with pity, and her soft white
hand trembling upon his, she seems to him so far

"Beyond all women, womanly,
He dreads to think how he should fare
Who came so near as to despair!"

A pang desolates his heart. Alas! is not despair the only portion that
can be meted out for him! The joy and the gladness of living, and the
one great treasure of all--the heart's love--that beautifies and refines
all it touches, can never be his; never for him, while this shadow rests
upon him, will there be home or "hearthstone," or that deeper, more
perfected sense of fellowship that exists between two souls only.

And this girl, with her hand on his, and

"With eyes like open lotus flowers
Bright in the morning rain."

looking straight up at him, with gentlest concern in her regard, how
might it have been with him and her, if life had flowed in a pleasant
stream, and no turbulent waves had come to disturb its calm and musical
ripple?

How short have been his days of grace, how long must be his years of
misery; just in the very opening of his life, in the silken morning of
his youth, the blow had fallen, deadening his sky, and rendering all
things gray.

In what a very little space, indeed, lie all our happy moments; even the
most successful of us can count them one by one, as it might be, on the
fingers of one hand; and how tardy, how wearying, are those where
sorrow, and trouble, and despair hold their own.

"Ce qui nous charme s'en va, et ce qui fait peine reste. La rose vit une
heure, et le cypres cent ans."

Portia has gone into an inner room, and now returns with a basin and a
sponge. Very gently (and as though afraid each movement may increase his
pain) she bathes his arm, glancing up at him every now and then to see
if, indeed, she is adding to or decreasing his agony.

If the truth be told, I believe he feels no agony at all, so glad he is
to know her touch, and see her face. When she has sponged his arm with
excessive tenderness, she brings a cambric handkerchief, and, tearing it
into strips, winds it round and round the torn flesh.

"Perhaps that will do until Dr. Bland can see it," she says hopefully.
"At least tell me you are in less pain now, and that I have done you
some small good."

"Small!" says Fabian.

"Ah! well," she says, lightly, "then I suppose I have succeeded,