stories of utter ignorance. They believed he had wilfully
committed the forgery, trusting he would never be discovered, because of
the unfortunate similarity between his writing and that of Sir
Christopher. But he had failed, in spite of his ingenuity, and had been
found out; and, though none of the forged notes had been discovered in
his possession (which only proved the more to his distant relatives that
he possessed the cleverness of the practised schemer), still they one
and all sat upon him in solemn conclave, and pronounced him outside the
pale of respectability.

That Christopher should elect to leave the beautiful old Court to such a
one seems little less than a crime to the "cousins and aunts." To leave
it to a man shunned by the entire county (and very properly too!), a man
ashamed to lift his head amongst his fellow men, and who had never tried
to live down his disgrace or brave it out. In this fact--the certainty
of his being pusillanimous about his accusation--lies the proof of his
guilt, to them.

Portia is going over the whole sad story now again, while the sinner
walks beside her. Once she lifts her eyes, and looks at him, and tells
herself Roger was indeed right when he made much of his beauty. Yet
Satan dwells in comely bodies! How sad that a face so inclined to
nobility should be stamped with the lines of care, born of dishonor.
Tears fill her eyes as she looks at him, and she turns her head quickly
away, but not before he has seen and marked the signs of distress within
her beautiful eyes. A spasm crosses his face; he recoils a little from
her, as though fear possesses him. He frowns; and a curious light--half
grief, half anger--grows upon him, and expresses itself upon his quiet
lips. Something that is almost agony is in his eyes; truly though the
body can know grief, the "sorrows of the soul are graver still."

"What is it that has risen between us?" he asks, suddenly; there is
something intense in his tone. "Have you?"--he pauses, and then goes on
with an effort--"have you in your heart so utterly condemned me?"

They have come to a stand-still; and Fabian, as he asks this question,
is standing with his back against a huge oak tree, his eyes fixed upon
his companion. His face is as white as death.

She makes him no answer. A very fine shade of color, so faint as to be
almost imperceptible, dyes her cheek for a moment and then vanishes as
suddenly as it came, leaving her quite as pallid as he