ce's heart with misgivings.
That he has fretted greatly over her broken engagement with Roger (who
is to the old Baronet as dear as his own son should have been, and
second only to Fabian in his affections) she well knows; she well knows,
too, how magnanimously--to please her--he has tried to be civil to
Stephen Gower, and to welcome him with cordiality as his future nephew.
But the effort to do all this has aged and saddened him; and from time
to time his mind wanders restlessly to the young man who left his home
full of anger and indignant grief.

As for Stephen, living in his "Fool's Paradise, he drinks delight," nor
heeds how false is all the happiness that seems to surround him. Bitter
is the fruit he feeds on, though he will not acknowledge it even to
himself; and, looking on his dainty lady-love, he is still happy, and
content to bear all things, and suffer all things, for the few grains of
adulterated sweetness doled out by her every now and then with a niggard
hand. He will see no cloud on his horizon, although it sits there
heavily; nor will he notice aught but what is good and lovable in this
girl, upon whom he has centred all his dearest hopes.

For the rest, there has been but little change amongst them. Julia
Beaufort and the children had gone away for a month, but returned to the
Hall a fortnight ago, and are now--that is, the children, at all
events--anxiously awaiting Christmas Day with all its affectations of
gaiety and goodwill, and its hideous paddings.

Sir Mark did pretty much the same as Julia. He went away, too, and came
back again, thus filling up the measure of his days. Mr. Browne had
declined to stir for any pretense whatever, and has been enjoying
himself to the utmost, now at Portia's feet, now at Dulce's, and, when
all things fail, at Julia's.

Perhaps to Fabian the days have seemed longest. He is silent, cold,
self-contained as ever; but now there is something else, a settled
melancholy, that yet has in it a mixture of extreme pride, that forbids
any approach to it; a melancholy born of despair, and the knowledge that
there is laid upon him "a burden greater than he can bear."

"Time, the subtle thief of youth," is stealing from him his best years;
his life is going, and with it all chance of joy and gladness. Ever
since that memorable evening in the garden, after the ball, a strange
reserve has arisen between him and Portia. That morning, as the soft
pink dawn came up from behind th