ly silent. Mark Gore, laying his hand upon his shoulder, says
something to him in a low tone unheard by the rest, who are all talking
together and so making a solitude for these two.

"It is too late," says Fabian, replying to him slowly; "too late." There
is more of settled conviction than of bitterness in his tone, which
only renders it the more melancholy. "He was right. He has ruined my
life. Were I to live twice the allotted time given to man, I should
never forget these last five horrible years. They have killed me; that
is, the best of me. I tell you, deliverance has come _too late_!"

Even as his voice dies away another rises.

"Do not say that--_anything_ but that," entreats Portia, in deep
agitation. Once more this evening she lays her small, jeweled hand upon
his breast and looks into his eyes. "Fabian, there is renewed hope, a
fresh life before you; take courage. Remember--Oh, Mark, _speak_ to
him!"

She is trembling violently, and her breath is coming with suspicious
difficulty. Her lips are quivering, and pain, actual physical pain,
dimming the lustre of her violet eyes. The old ache is tugging angrily
at her heart strings now.

Still Fabian does not relent. As yet the very salve that has cured his
hurt has only made the hurt more unendurable by dragging it into public
notice. Now that he is free, emancipated from the shadow of this crime
that has encompassed him as a cloud for so long, its proportions seem to
grow and increase until they reach a monstrous size. To have been
wounded in the body, or deprived of all one's earthly goods at a stroke,
or bereaved of one's nearest and dearest, would all have been sore
trials no doubt. But, alas! to make him a fixed figure for scorn to
point his slow, unmoving finger at. What agony, with misfortune, could
cope with that?

And she, who had not trusted him when she _might_, will he care that she
should trust him now when she _must_?

Slowly he lifts the pale, slender hand, and very gently lets it fall by
her side. His meaning is not to be misunderstood; he will none of her.
Henceforth their paths shall lie as widely apart as they have lain (of
_her own_ choice) for the past few months.

"I repeat it," he says, quietly, letting his eyes rest for a moment upon
hers, "it is _too late_!"

And outside the wild winds, flying past with an even fiercer outbreak of
wrath, seem to echo those fatal words, "Too late!" The very rain, being
full of them, seeks to dash