s how
sweet she looked standing there, half leaning over the balcony, and
looking down on him--unworthy, pale, but full of beauty.

It may be that other women have been lovely in his eyes, but, surely,
none have reached her standard. One, indeed, in the past years had
appeared to him (though he had not loved her) as nearly perfect as a
woman can be; but, now comparing her with Portia, as he has often done
of late, she--the former beauty--had paled in comparison.

He has been reading some old book of late, and now, thinking of both
women, a description in it of some ancient queen and one of her court
comes to him as being applicable to the train of thought in which he is
indulging.

"One, amongst other purposes, said unto them of late, that she (the
queen) 'excelleth as far the duchess as the golden sun excelleth the
silver moon,' which appeareth in the gravity of her face. Thus say they
that have seen them both."

As he reaches the corridor, and gains the threshold of his own room, a
light step behind him, causing him to turn, he finds himself looking
once again into Portia's eyes.

She is very pale still, and there is something pathetic about her mouth.
Slowly she comes up to him, without uttering a word, until she is so
close to him that she can touch him, if she will. Then she speaks:

"You wronged me just now," she says, in a low voice: "you had an evil
thought about me! But not _now_, I think," regarding him earnestly. "You
have gone over it all again in your own mind, and you understand now you
misjudged me."

"You are quite right in all you say; I did misjudge you. I have
discovered my error. You will forgive me?"

"I suppose so." She is looking down now, and is tapping the ground
impatiently with her foot.

"You ought," says Fabian, quietly. "To misjudge one's neighbor is one of
the commonest failings of mankind."

There is meaning in his tone. She acknowledges unwillingly the fact that
she comprehends this meaning by a sign, silent but perceptible: she
colors deeply, and, still looking down, continues her tattoo upon the
oaken flooring of the corridor.

"You are not very humble," she says at length, "even now, when you have
had to demand my pardon."

"Am I not?" says Fabian, with a partly suppressed sigh. "I should be.
Forgive me that, too, and--" He pauses to draw his breath quickly, as if
in pain. At this she lifts her head, and something she sees in his
expression tells her the truth.

"You