anything very particular, you know. It has
all been said so often. _So_ often, and to no use. What a little thing,
Portia, gives rise to the most terrible consequences; the mere fact that
two people wrote alike, and formed their capitals in the same fashion,
has been the utter ruin of a man's life. It sounds dreadful--cruel!
sometimes--_often_--I lie awake thinking of it all, and wondering can
nothing be done, and no hope ever comes to me. That is the saddest part
of it, it will go on like this forever, he will go to his grave,"
mournfully, "and his very memory will be associated with disgrace."

She pauses and sighs heavily, and folds her fingers tightly together.
Not Stephen, nor Roger, but this dishonored brother, is the love of her
life--as yet.

"Of course you heard a good deal about it in town," she says, sadly. "He
had many friends there at one time. Fair-weather friends! They, as a
rule, are cruellest when evil comes; and they never remember. You heard
him often discussed?"

This is a downright question to which Portia is constrained to give an
answer.

"Yes; often," she says, sorely against her will.

"Aunt Maud would enlarge upon it, of course," says Dulce, bitterly. "She
likes whisperings and slanderous tongues. And you, when first you heard
it, what did you think?"

Portia shrinks from her. Must she answer this question, too?

"Think?" she says, evasively.

"Yes; what did you think of Fabian?"

"Very little," says Portia, who has grown quite white; "why should I
think at all? I did not know him then. It was most natural, was it not?
He was a stranger to me."

"A stranger, yes. But still your cousin--your own blood. I should have
thought much, I think. It was natural, I daresay, but even _then_--you
must recollect--did you believe in him? Did you guess the truth?"

"I don't think I quite understand," said Portia, faintly.

Dulce, in a vague fashion, takes note of her confusion.

"Not understand! But it is such a simple matter," she says, in a changed
tone. She looks puzzled, surprised, and a distressed look comes into her
eyes. "I mean even _then_, did you believe him innocent?"

"How can I remember?" says Portia, drawing her breath quickly.

The distrust grows upon Dulce's tell-tale face. She comes a step nearer
to her cousin.

"No," she says, slowly--her eyes are fixed attentively upon Portia--"it
is some time ago. But you can at least tell me _this_. Now--_now_--that
you know him--when