Dulce, coming up-stairs, presently, finds her still sitting over the
fire, in an attitude that betokens the very deepest dejection.

"You here, _tres chere_, and alone," she says, gaily, stooping over her
in caressing fashion. "Naughty girl. You should have told me you were
going to honor me with your presence, and I would have made my room gay
to receive you."

"I don't want you to make a stranger of me. I like your room as it is,"
says Portia, with a smile.

"Well, don't sit crouching over the fire; it will spoil your complexion;
come over to the window and see what the storm has done, and how lovely
nature can look even when robed in Winter's garb."

Portia, rising, follows her to the window, but as she reaches it she
sinks again wearily into a lounging chair, with all the air of one whose
limbs refuse obstinately to support her.

As both girls gaze out upon the chilly landscape, white here and there
with the snow that fell last night, Fabian, coming from between the dark
green branches of an ancient lauristinus, with two red setters at his
heels, and a gun upon his shoulder, passes beneath the window, going in
the direction of the home wood.

Leaning forward, Dulce taps lightly on the pane, and Fabian, heating the
quick sound, stops short, and lifts his eyes to the window. As he sees
his pretty sister, he nods to her, and a bright smile creeps round his
lips, rendering his always handsome face actually beautiful for the
moment.

Only for a moment; his gaze wandering, instinctively, falls on Portia,
standing pale and calm beside her cousin. Their eyes meet, and, as if by
magic, the smile dies, his lips grow straight and cold again, and,
without another glance, he whistles to his dogs, and, turning the
corner, is rapidly out of sight.

"Dear Fabian--poor darling," says Dulce, tenderly, who has noticed only
the kindly smile vouchsafed to her. "How sad he always looks. Even his
smile is more mournful than the tears of others. What a terrible
pressure Fate has laid upon him. He----; how pale you are, Portia! What
is it, dearest? I am sure you are not well to-day."

"I am quite well. I am only cold; go on," speaking with some difficulty;
"you were saying something about--Fabian."

"I _think_ so much of him that it is a relief to talk sometimes; but I
won't make you doleful. Come over to the fire if you are cold."

"No, I like being here; and--do go on, I like listening to you."

"Well, I wasn't going to say