ardly rest with such
a man as Fabian. Of course, the whole thing is a wretched mistake, that
will be cleared up sooner or later, let us hope sooner, as surely he has
suffered enough already, poor dear fellow!"

She pauses; Portia puzzled, and secretly indignant, says nothing. Seeing
she will not speak, Julia goes on again even more impressively than
before.

"I never entertained a shadow of a doubt with regard to him," she says,
nobly, "never! Who could? I was always one of his very warmest
supporters."

This is too much! Portia murmuring something civil, but distinct, rises
abruptly, and, going to the door, opens it, and is soon beyond call, and
beyond hearing of the voice that has grown hateful to her.

Just at this moment, Julia's absurd shufflings, and equivocations, and
barefaced changes from one asseveration to another fill her with wrath.
She is distressed, and at war with her own heart; and so, crossing the
hall, makes for the one room that is especially dear to all women when
in trouble, namely, her own bedroom.

But passing by Dulce's door, and finding it open, she pauses before it,
and finally, after some hesitation, she crosses the threshold only to
find it empty.

The fire is burning brightly; a little crushed glove lies upon the
hearth-rug, showing how its owner but lately had knelt before the fire,
or stood near it to gaze into its depths, and call up fancied faces from
its coals.

A little low chair attracts her attention; sinking into it, she lets her
chin fall into the palm of her hands, and presently is lost in painful
and half-angry reflection.

"Pretty nearly everybody." The words ring in her ears; does the whole
county, then, look upon Fabian with averted eyes? And perhaps--who
knows--the very people beneath the roof may distrust him, too; she had
not known until this evening Julia's private opinion; the others may
agree with her, but naturally shrink from saying so. Roger, perhaps,
believed him guilty; and Dicky Browne, it may be, in his secret soul,
regards him with contempt, and Sir Mark--

No, _not_ Sir Mark! She could not mistake him. However foolish it may
be, certainly his belief in Fabian is genuine. And somehow of late, she
has grown rather fond of Sir Mark; and here she sighs, and laying her
hand upon her heart, presses it convulsively against it as though to
still the pain that has sprung into life there, because of the agitation
that has been hers for the past half hour.