e door, strides down the corridor, and is soon beyond
recall.

When the last echo of his feet has died away Portia rouses herself, and,
moving towards a low chair near the fireplace, sinks into it, and
presses her hands convulsively against her heart.

Now that she is at last alone, the excitement of the last hour begins to
tell upon her. Her cheeks and lips, that up to this have been positively
bloodless, now grow dyed with richest crimson, that is certainly not of
this earth--earthy, as it gives no promise of health or youthful
strength. She leans back in her chair as if exhausted; and, in truth, in
the fair shell that harbors her soul but very little power remains to
battle with the varied thoughts that rise within her.

Scene by scene the events of the last hour spread themselves before her:
the maddened brute rushing violently over the soft, smooth lawn to where
the treacherous stream awaits him, running gently between its damp green
banks--Sir Christopher's danger--Fabian's unexpected interference--the
short, but terrible fear for him--and then the sudden fall from the
extreme agony of suspense to comparative calm.

And yet, perhaps, all this does not haunt her so much as one or two
other things, that, in reality, were of little moment. That time, for
instance, when he--Fabian--stood beneath the balcony, and when he, with
a glance, a half-spoken word, accused her of coldness and indifference.
He had condemned her all too willingly. But this was only fair, no
doubt. Had not she, in her innermost heart, condemned him, unheard,
unquestioned.

And what was it he had said to Dulce? "Take example by your cousin; see
how sensible _she_ can be," or something like that. Sensible! When this
terrible pain was tugging at her heart strings, and prolonged
nervousness had made speech impossible.

And why had he said "_your_ cousin," instead of "our cousin?" Was it
that he did not care to claim kinship with her, or because--because--he
did not count himself worthy--to--

Again she raises her hand, and presses it with undue force against her
left side. She is unhappy and alone, and full of a vague uncertainty.

"Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows," and all the shadows of
her grief seem now to hem her in, and encompass her on every side. The
old troublesome pain in her heart, that drove her from the dissipations
of town life to seek a shelter in the quiet country, returns to her
again. At this moment the pain of