appreciate his! You lack
generosity. You could not grasp the fact that there might be in this
wide world such a thing as undiscovered wrong. You condemned without a
hearing. Why," growing calmer, "there have been _hundreds_ of cases
where the innocent have suffered for the guilty."

"I know it," says Portia, feverishly, taking Dulce's hand and trying to
draw her towards her; but the girl recoils.

"Do not touch me," she says. "There is no longer any friendship between
us."

"Oh! Dulce, do not say that," entreats Portia, painfully.

"I will say it. All is at an end as far as love between us is concerned.
Fabian is part of me. I cannot separate myself from him. His friends are
mine. His detractors are mine also. I will not forgive them. I believe
him a saint, you believe him defiled, and tainted with the crime of
_forgery_."

She draws her breath quickly; and Portia turns even whiter than before.

"Whereas I protest to you," goes on Dulce, rapidly losing all
constraint, and letting her only half-suppressed passion have full sway.
"I believe you to be less pure than him, less noble, less self-denying;
_he_ would be slow to believe evil of anyone. And this one thing I am
resolved on. He shall no longer be left in ignorance of your scorn; he
shall not any more spend his affection upon one who regards him with
disdain; he shall know the truth before the day dies."

"Have you no pity?" says Portia, faintly.

"Have you none? You condemned him willingly."

"Oh! not willingly!"

"I don't care, you _have_ condemned him."

"If you will only think, you will see--"

"Don't speak to me, I _hate_ you," says Miss Blount, growling
undignified because of her deep grief and agitation. "And don't think
you can turn me from my purpose. I shall tell him what you think of him
before this evening passes, be sure of that."

"There is no need to tell him," says Portia, in so low a tone that Dulce
can scarcely hear her. "He--he knows already!"

"What!" cries Dulce, aghast. But her rout only lasts for a moment. "I
don't care," she says, recklessly, "that is only another reason why I
should warn him to beware of you!"

Then, as though some cruel thought strikes her, she suddenly bursts into
tears.

"Were there not _others_?" she sobs, bitterly. "If a slave was
indispensable to your happiness, was there not Roger, or Stephen, or
Dicky Browne, or even Sir Mark, that you must needs claim _him_? He was
heart-whole when you came; if