ys a little, as one might, who is, indeed, hurt
to death. "And you, too," she says, faintly; "the only one of all our
_friends_. And I so trusted you. I so _loved_ you!"

"Dulce!" cries poor Portia, in an agonized tone. "Hear me!" She springs
to her feet, but Dulce, removing her hands from her face, holds them
both towards her in such a repellant manner, that she dares not
approach. In the last half hour, this girl, so pliant, so prone to
laughter and childish petulance, has sprung from the happy insolence of
youth into the sad gravity of womanhood.

"What a fool I was," she says, in a low concentrated tone. "I watched
all, and I was so _sure_. I thought--the idea will make you laugh, no
doubt--but I thought that you _loved_ him. Yet why should you laugh,"
she says with a sudden passion of remembrance. "Many women have loved
him, the best, the loveliest--nay, all the world loved him, till this
false blight fell upon him. And even since--"

She hesitates. It may be emotion, it may be recollection and a thought
that he may not wish further disclosures, check her.

"Yes, and even since?" echoes Portia, bending eagerly forward. Some
feeling even greater than the anguish of the moment compels her to ask
the question. But it is never answered. Dulce, with quivering lips and
flashing eyes, follows out her own train of thought.

"I congratulate you upon your complete success as a coquette," she says.
"No doubt, a London season can develop talents of that sort. You at
least deserve praise as an apt pupil. Step by step, day by day, you led
him on to his destruction--nay, I am not blind--until at last he laid
his whole heart at your feet; you made him adore you only to--"

"Dulce--Dulce," cries Portia, throwing out her arms in passionate
protest. "It is not true, I--"

"I _will_ speak," says Dulce, pressing her back from her, "I _will_ tell
you what I think of you. Scorning him in your heart you still encouraged
him, until his very soul was your own. Do you think I can't see how it
is? Have you forgotten he is my own flesh and blood, and that I can read
him as no one else can? He thinks you sweet and noble, and perfect, no
doubt. Alas! how he has been deceived!"

"Listen to me."

"No, I will not listen. I have trusted you too far already. Oh!"
piteously, "you who have seen him, and have noticed the beauty, the
sweetness of his life, how could you have misjudged him? But," with
vehement anger, "your narrow mind could not