and we, who loved him, could do nothing to
comfort him."

"Ah! that was hard," says Portia, leaning over her. "Not to be able to
lift the burden from those whose life is dear to us as our own is almost
more than one can bear!"

"How you understand," says Dulce, gratefully. "And then, you see,
somehow every one got to know about it; Fabian could not prove his
innocence, and--I suppose--the story sounded badly in alien ears. And
then there came a day when somebody--Lord Ardley I think--cut Fabian
publicly, and that made an end of all things. Uncle Christopher wanted
to take notice of that, too--wanted I think" (with a wan smile that has
no mirth in it) "to challenge Lord Ardley and carry him over to France
and fight it out with him _a la mort_, but Fabian would not allow it,
and I think he was right."

"Quite right." There was quite a ring in Miss Vibart's tone as she says
this, but Dulce is too occupied with sad retrospect to notice anything
at this moment. "How could the writing have so exactly resembled
Fabian's?" she says, presently; "it was Uncle Christopher's name was
forged, was it not?"

"Yes, but Fabian writes exactly like him. He makes his capitals quite
the same. Anyone trying to copy Uncle Christopher's writing would
probably succeed in imitating Fabian's perfectly."

"Ah! he writes like Uncle Christopher," says Portia, slowly, as though
adding another link in her own mind to a conclusion already carefully
formed.

"You will like him, I think," says Dulce, getting up from her low
position as though restless and desirous of change. She leans her back
against the balcony and faces her cousin. "Though he is terribly
altered; so different to what he used to be. He is so grave now, and
silent and moody. He seems to be ever brooding over the mystery of his
own life, and trying--trying to get away from everybody. Oh! how he
suffered, how we all suffered just then, knowing him to be innocent."

"You knew he was innocent?" says Miss Vibart. Unfortunately her tone is
one of inquiry. She has her hands clasped in her lap and is looking
steadily at Dulce, who is watching her intently from the railings of the
balcony, where she stands framed in by roses. Miss Vibart's fan has
slipped to the ground; she is really interested in this story. May not
the hero of it prove an absorbing study? Her tone, however, grates upon
the ears of the "absorbing study's" sister. Dulce flushes perceptibly;
opens her lips hastily as tho