Slighted love
Date: 2025-06-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dime novels; American fiction; Romance fiction

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Title: Slighted love
or, At her heart's expense

Author: Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

Release date: June 29, 2025 [eBook #76413]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1931

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76413

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLIGHTED LOVE ***

SLIGHTED LOVE

OR

At Her Heart’s Expense

By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER

Author of “They Looked and Loved,” “When We Two Parted,” “All for Love,” etc.

Printed in the U. S. A.

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, Inc.

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

SLIGHTED LOVE.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. A MOTHER’S CONFESSION.
CHAPTER II. IN NEW SURROUNDINGS.
CHAPTER III. ACCUSED OF FRAUD.
CHAPTER IV. IN A SPIDER’S WEB.
CHAPTER V. HER FATHER’S FRIEND.
CHAPTER VI. EMMETT’S PLEA.
CHAPTER VII. IN DEADLY PERIL.
CHAPTER VIII. A MOTHER’S HATE.
CHAPTER IX. ITALY VALE’S SONG.
CHAPTER X. BORNE ON THE TIDE.
CHAPTER XI. WITHOUT A HOME.
CHAPTER XII. THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WIDOW.
CHAPTER XIII. NAMING THE BABY.
CHAPTER XIV. PERCY SEABRIGHT’S ADVICE.
CHAPTER XV. THE LAWYER’S STORY.
CHAPTER XVI. ITALY’S RESOLUTION.
CHAPTER XVII. MRS. MURRAY’S ANGUISH.
CHAPTER XVIII. A LOYAL HEART.
CHAPTER XIX. FRANCIS MURRAY FOUND.
CHAPTER XX. MR. GARDNER PROMISES HELP.
CHAPTER XXI. FRANCIS MURRAY RECOVERS.
CHAPTER XXII. MRS. VALE SHOCKS HER DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXIII. A MEMORABLE SLEIGH-RIDE.
CHAPTER XXIV. PROFESSOR DOEPKIN’S HEROISM.
CHAPTER XXV. ITALY’S CLUE.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DESERTED BRIDE.
CHAPTER XXVII. IN ITALY’S POWER.
CHAPTER XXVIII. MRS. VALE IS VINDICATED.
CHAPTER XXIX. LOVE TURNED TO HATE.
CHAPTER XXX. PERCY SEABRIGHT’S TRIAL.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE WAGES OF SIN.
CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE SUNSET’S GLOW.

CHAPTER I.

A MOTHER’S CONFESSION.

Italy Vale! When you heard her name you associated it with blue skies, with orange-groves, and rippling streams; when you saw her face you thought of music and poetry and flowers; of dusky pansies like her somber eyes; of pale-pink roses like her cheeks; of scarlet geraniums like her lips; of young palm-trees that were not more graceful than her slender form, and of the purple bloom of the grape that seemed to linger on her dark, waving tresses—but it was not beneath tropic skies you found her, but on a flat, sandy, wind-swept beach of bleak Massachusetts, at Winthrop-by-the-Sea, a brilliant, dusky-eyed, foreign-looking girl, like some rare-plumaged, tropical bird alighted on an alien shore.

She was young, she was maddeningly lovely, this girl, and but a few months before she had knelt beneath the blossoming limes in an old Italian garden, and looking up with dark, pathetic eyes into the pale, fair face above her, had murmured anxiously:

“Mama, why do we lead so lonely a life? Why do people seem to shun us? What have we done?”

The mother’s soft blue eyes had filled with tears as she faltered:

“So you have seen it, my darling? I can no longer hide from you our desolation.”

“No, mama, for now I am seventeen years old, and can reason quite like a woman. I have seen what I have told you—that we two are alone in the world together, friendless and seemingly shunned. We rove from clime to clime like two restless ghosts, yet everywhere some dark shadow of destiny follows us. We seem to be known and remarked even in places that are strange to us. As for you, I comprehend that you are bitterly unhappy, for I have never seen a smile upon your lips. Mama, why is it so? Why are we branded and set apart from the rest of the world?”

The blue-eyed mother sobbed bitterly:

“The moment I have dreaded so long has come at last. I must confess the truth to my child. God grant her strength to bear the cross.”

She kissed the eager, upturned face, and her tears fell on its wondrous beauty.

“Oh, my love, my love, how cruel Fate has been to us!” she cried. “I might have been so happy, and you might have reigned like a little queen, but, alas, alas! one dark moment of horror changed both our lives—turned sunshine to darkness, happiness to despair.”

The girl’s white arms, that were a very poem of beauty, encircled the drooping form, the red lips kissed the tears away, and the sweet voice murmured tenderly:

“And you have not deserved that the winds of Fate should blow roughly upon you, my dearest one.”

“God bless you for those loving words, my child. Oh, what a treasure is your faith and love! May they not fail me when you learn of the shadow that has darkened your life and mine,” sighed Mrs. Vale, and, after a moment, she added falteringly:

“Italy, dear, you have been told that your father died in your early childhood, but you have never known what I must tell you now. He—my poor husband—was—murdered!”

“Oh, Heaven!” and Italy’s dark, silken head dropped half-fainting upon her mother’s knee, her eyes closed upon the blue Italian landscape that seemed blurred by a strange mist.

Mrs. Vale’s thin, blue-veined hand fell in tender caressing upon the dark curls.

“Be brave, dear, for there is more to tell, and it is so horrible,” she sobbed. “Oh, Italy, I, your mother, his cherished wife, was accused of my husband’s murder, and tried for my life!”

“Oh, Heaven!” again sobbed the girl, and a convulsive shudder passed over the kneeling form.

Mrs. Vale shuddered, too, and after a moment added brokenly:

“Tried and acquitted.”

Italy half-raised her head, a sob of joy quivering over her lips, but again Mrs. Vale spoke:

“The circumstantial evidence was not strong enough to convict, so the jury acquitted me—but—public opinion adjudged me guilty. The judge and jury that acquitted me were hissed in the crowded court-room. I, too, was hissed as I left it, and ever since that day a malicious clamor has hounded my friendless footsteps through the world.”

She paused, and the low winds sighing through the blossoming limes seemed to echo the despair of her voice.

The dark, silken head lay still upon her knee. Italy was past moving or speaking for the moment, like one tranced in a terrible dream.

The low, sad voice went on:

“I should not have said that I was utterly friendless. My lawyer believed in me, was kind to me. After the trial I stayed for years in Boston, trying to live down the odium of my trial, but all in vain; then this kind friend advised me to come abroad.”

“Mama, then you are an American?” cried the daughter, in surprise.

“Yes, darling, I was born on New England soil, and your father was murdered at our seaside home at Winthrop, near Boston. It is there that his heir lives now.”

“His heir, mama?”

“Yes, Italy; your father was very rich, but his wealth had come to him through English ancestry, and was strictly entailed on the male issue of the family. You were a girl, so the money went to a very distant cousin, a young man. To me, the hapless widow, and to you, the orphaned daughter, remained only my own small private fortune. With no relatives to turn to, deserted by my former friends, abhorred by the world, I soon became the restless wanderer I am now, but pursued ever by some malignant, unknown foe, who constantly blazons my sad story to the carping world.”

“My dearest one!” cried the girl caressingly, and her tender voice was full of love and sympathy.

The pale, statuesque face of Mrs. Vale quivered with emotion, and she strained the girl to her breast, sobbing convulsively:

“My child, you can never know what I have suffered! Oh, it has been a living death, this life of mine! I loved my husband so dearly that his loss was enough to break my heart; and to think of being accused of his death, to think of living under a ban, acquitted by the law, and judged guilty by popular verdict. Oh, it is enough to drive one mad!” and her slight form shook with heavy sobs as she clung to the beloved child, whose love was all that had saved her from utter misery.

“Mama, who did it? Who killed my father?” cried the girl.

“God alone knows, Italy. There was never any clue to any one, save some weak evidence that threw suspicion on me. Darling, I have kept all the papers in the case and everything relating to it—kept them for you when you should grow to womanhood. You shall read them to-morrow, you shall know the whole tragic story, so that you may judge the mother you love.”

“My dearest one!” again cried the girl, and they wept together in each other’s arms.

That was long months ago, and now the girl who had knelt weeping in the old Italian garden walked alone on the beach at Winthrop, her dark, eager eyes fixed on a splendid old stone mansion fronting the sea—The Lodge, where her father had been murdered and where his heir now lived.

She went toward the grand villa, her eyes bright and thoughtful, her mind going back to that golden day in Italy when she had heard her mother sob despairingly:

“How could they say I killed him? I loved him so, I loved him so, and all my life is blighted by his loss!”

Her lips were trembling with the sadness of that memory as she went up the broad stone steps to the grand portico dotted with inviting easy chairs, while the broad double doors in front stood hospitably open, giving a view of a magnificent hall paved with cool blue and white tiles, and adorned with gleaming white statues between immense potted plants of tropical beauty. The warm breeze of August, tempered by the cool sea-air, stirred the lance-leaved palms and bright-hued caladiums.

“This would have been my home had my father lived,” she murmured, and then she saw a tall man-servant approach her from the interior of the hall. She roused herself from a fanciful retrospection, and asked for Francis Murray, the master of the house.

“He is in his study. I will be pleased to take your card to him, miss.”

“I have no card. Simply tell him a stranger on important business,” Italy answered, with a strange, defiant uplifting of her slender ebon brows, and she sat down in one of the portico chairs to wait.

In another moment two beautiful young girls and a very stylish young man, all in natty yachting-suits, came sauntering up the broad steps. When they saw Italy sitting there in her simple gray traveling-dress, quiet and yet elegant, they stared in surprise, then nodded courteously, and also took seats at a distance, regarding her with veiled curiosity and admiration, all unconscious that this lovely, foreign-looking girl had brought into the quiet Lodge an element of intense tragedy.

“Ah, Alexie, that was a glorious sail,” cried the young man gaily.

“Alys did not think so,” and the young girl nodded at the other one, whose rosy lips were puckered in an angry pout.

“It was hateful, and I wish you would not tease me, Ralph Allen!” exclaimed the pretty blonde petulantly, just as the servant came back and said:

“Mr. Murray will see you, miss.”

Italy followed him through the wide hall, and the other three gazed after the graceful form in subdued wonder.

“Whew! Alys, how do you like that?” laughed Ralph Allen.

“She is burning with jealousy of the beautiful unknown,” twittered the girl called Alexie, and the hum of their merry badinage followed Italy as she went with an almost tragic face toward the man she wished to see—her distant kinsman.

She found him in a beautiful library, with most exquisite appointments, the large open windows fronting the sea, whose salty breath blew deliciously into the room and mixed with the fine aroma of a cigar that Francis Murray flung away as he rose to meet his stranger guest, the girl with the tropic face and soul, who was bringing at this moment new, strange elements of emotion into his calm, prosperous existence.

CHAPTER II.

IN NEW SURROUNDINGS.

They stood face to face, the pair, and just for a moment Italy’s eyes sank to the cool, blue-tiled floor, with its litter of white fur rugs. Then she looked up and met Francis Murray’s gaze. Suddenly her breath came in a quick gasp, she trembled strangely, and her lips, that had parted to speak, closed again without a sound. She was stirred in a new and subtile fashion she could not comprehend. It was the magnetic influence of manly beauty and power combined upon a young girl’s heart.

Francis Murray was a large man, with a most attractive personality. He was fair without being strictly blond, his splendid eyes were blue-gray, with a sweet, serious look, his brow was white and square, his nose straight, his face oval with a firm chin, and full, sweet lips shaded by a drooping mustache of silky golden-brown. His hair a few shades darker, clustered in short, wavy masses to a grandly shaped head. He was past the early flush of youth, and looked thirty years old, perhaps a trifle more.

On his side Francis Murray was gazing on a type of beauty entirely distinct from his own, and quite as captivating, but thirty years, and perhaps a store of experience, had made him unimpressionable. His fine eyes expressed only surprise and courteous inquiry as he spoke:

“My name is Francis Murray, Miss——”

“Vale—Italy Vale,” answered the girl, and she saw him start ever so slightly as he motioned to a chair.

“Will you be seated, Miss Vale?”

Italy was trembling strangely; she was glad to accept the courtesy. Then she lifted up her eyes to him and continued in her sweet, liquid voice with its distinctly foreign accent:

“Perhaps my name is familiar to you, Mr. Murray. My father was your kinsman—Ronald Vale.”

“Ah-h!” cried Francis Murray.

He half-started from the chair into which he had gracefully flung himself; his handsome face grew slightly pale. Before he could speak, the low voice went on musically:

“You have a mother, sir, have you not?”

“Yes,” he replied coldly.

“And I, sir, am doubly orphaned. I—I—have—lost—my—dear—mother——” her voice shook painfully, and her lashes fell, perhaps to crush back rising tears.

He interrupted, in surprise:

“Mrs. Vale is dead! When?”

But the girl was sobbing hysterically in her handkerchief. Some broken words escaped her lips—words of entreaty that he would not question her yet, while her sorrow was so fresh, so new.

He was silent, respecting her grief, but his face was a study, it was so thoughtful, so perturbed.

Italy looked up at him again presently, the bright tears beading her black curly lashes, her lips tremulous.

“When I lost my mother I had—no kinspeople in the world but you,” she sobbed. “Mama had once—told me about you—and—your mother, so I thought I ought to come—home to you two. I call it home, you see, although I was born in Italy and bear that name. But I am an American, after all, you know, and my heart turned to my father’s old home. Was I wrong to come, or—may I stay?”

He sat speechless, staring at her in blank, appalled silence. In some fashion, although it was a far-distant relationship, this girl was akin to him, but—he was one of those who believed in her mother’s guilt. It made his heart freeze to her child.

“May I stay?” she repeated, in a pathetic voice, seconded by great, appealing dark eyes.

“Miss Vale, I must consult my mother first,” he answered bruskly, in spite of himself, and hurriedly left the room.

Italy waited, her slender hands locked together in her lap, her dark eyes gazing through the windows at the restless sea, her face pale, her lips compressed in a scarlet line. Her kinsman’s cold manner had chilled her like ice. She waited a long time, it seemed to her, then the door opened softly and a woman came in—a woman of fifty, with the traces of former beauty still remaining, tall, slight, and distingué as a duchess. She held out an aristocratic hand sparkling with gems.

“So you are Ronald Vale’s daughter? Welcome to The Lodge,” she said courteously, but with a frosty tone that did not escape Italy’s sensitive hearing.

But she bowed with as thoroughbred an air as madam’s own, and presented the tips of her small, cold fingers.

“My son has told me,” continued the sweet, chilly voice, “that your mother is dead, leaving you alone and friendless in the world. You were right to come to us. Your father was my cousin, although a very distant one. I was a Vale before my marriage. You resemble your father very much.”

With those few words Italy Vale was received as a member of the Murray family. There was no attempt at cordiality, no exuberant welcome. She understood clearly that, inasmuch as she had thrust herself upon the Murrays, they accepted the unwelcome charge through a sense of duty, mixed with highbred courtesy.

Soon she stood alone in the luxurious guest-chamber Mrs. Murray had assigned her after promising to have her small amount of luggage brought from the station at once.

Mrs. Murray herself showed Italy her room, and, lingering a moment, said:

“We have some Boston friends staying in the house—the Misses Audenreid, Alys and Alexie, twin sisters, and their aunt, a young widow—also two young men, Ralph Allen and Emmett Harlow. They are all very pleasant people, and I hope you will get on with them. I will go now and send my maid to assist you.”

The door closed, and Italy was alone with her own thoughts.

“It was easy—so far!” she mused. “God grant me success in my mission!” then the dark eyes suddenly dimmed. “But, oh, how I miss you, my dearest one,” she sighed.

Down-stairs there was a little flutter of excitement among the guests, who had learned from Mrs. Murray of the advent of the orphan girl, who would from henceforth be a member of the household.

Alexie Audenreid and Ralph Allen laughed, but Alys frowned at the news. It was an open secret to all that Alys was setting her cap at the master of the house, and that she was jealous of every possible rival.

She was bent on captivating the wary heart of the grave, handsome host, and in this ambition she was encouraged by her dashing aunt, Mrs. Dunn, who, by the way, was not a widow, as Mrs. Murray had said, but a divorcee. She always spoke of herself as a widow, however, and her friends very kindly supported the little fiction. Truth to tell, Mrs. Murray rather seconded the designs of Alys.

She disliked to see Francis growing into a bachelor past thirty, with no particular interest in the fair sex, indeed with a soupçon of cynical indifference toward it. She wished him to marry, and Alys Audenreid, only twenty years old, pretty, and with a neat fortune, seemed a very suitable match.

Alexie was already engaged to Ralph Allen, and the twin sisters had always planned to be married on the same night.

The wedding-day was set for January, so Alys would have to hasten the wooing of the laggard lover.

Into this coterie of friends, with their selfish aims and desires, Italy Vale had now entered, a jarring, unwelcome element. What would be the outcome of it all?

A week had passed—a month it seemed to the lonely girl who felt herself an alien to those by whom she was surrounded.

To Francis Murray, the man who possessed such a peculiar interest for Italy, she was almost as much a stranger as on the first day she came.

“He avoids me, courteously, yet palpably,” she said to herself bitterly. “But no wonder. It is his guilty conscience. The daughter’s presence is a reminder of the parents whom he wronged. Oh, Heaven, can it be true that this noble-looking man is the criminal I suspect, whom I have vowed to hunt down? But who else was there to profit by my father’s death?” and she watched Francis Murray with a painful intensity, till she grew to know almost every expression of the thoughtful, handsome face that was so grave and cold whenever it turned to her, the girl who had thrust herself upon his care.

Almost the first day of her coming, Mrs. Murray had said to her almost apologetically:

“My son is very quiet and studious. You must not expect him to be very cordial. It is not his way. He likes best to be left alone in his library among his books.”

“I shall not intrude upon him, madam,” the girl answered almost haughtily, and her footsteps never strayed near the beautiful room where she had first met the gaze of the startled, blue-gray eyes of Francis Murray.

She quite understood the delicate hint that she was to keep out of his way. But she did not believe that it was not his way to be cordial. She noticed him with the others. She saw that he could unbend from his grave dignity to jest and laugh with them.

Italy soon found out that Alys Audenreid adored her host. She owned to herself that it was not strange. There was a fascination about this man that made itself felt even without effort of his own.

“I, too, could admire him, but for my terrible suspicions,” she owned to herself, with unwilling candor.

The days went by, and it seemed as if, after all, she might win a few friends in the household. Ralph Allen and Alexie, his pretty fiancée, were kind to her, and soon she found that Emmett Harlow was often at her side, his clear blue eyes expressing a very decided admiration for the handsome stranger. He had a kind heart, and he tried to make up to her for the coldness of the others.

“You must not mind Alys,” he said. “She is jealous of every pretty face that comes under the eyes of Francis Murray, and as for her aunt, she is spiteful because there is a man she likes very much, and she is afraid he will fall in love with you when he comes here next week.”

“He is coming here, then?” she asked, without much interest in the subject, so dull are we when Fate knocks at our doors.

“Oh, yes, he is a particular friend of the Murrays, and a member of our yacht-club—a Bostonian when he is at home, but something of a rover and Bohemian in his tastes. Mrs. Dunn has been in love with him for years, and I do believe he has promised to marry her, only the marrying never comes off, nobody just knows why. Maybe he don’t like it the way she throws herself at his head. Well, you’ll see them together next week, and can judge for yourself. But don’t permit him to make love to you, or she is quite capable of scratching your black eyes out.”

“I shall not enter the lists for her lover’s smiles,” Italy answered coldly, and she felt so little interested that she did not even ask his name. What did she care for the men or women here, save only to find out that for which she had come—the secret, silent purpose that swayed her in remaining the unwelcome guest at The Lodge.

“I have been here a week. It seems like months, but I am no nearer the clue I came to seek,” she sighed. “Oh, that I could find my father’s missing diary—the gold-clasped book—whose contents he guarded so jealously even from my mother’s eyes! She believed that its contents might throw some possible light upon the mystery of his death. What became of that volume? Did my father hide it away before he died, or did the murderer destroy it? My father always kept it in that very desk before which I found Francis Murray sitting the day I came here first—the very desk, the very library where my parent met his tragic death, and which I am tacitly forbidden to enter. Oh, how can that man bear to sit there day by day among his books? I hate him, oh, I hate him!” and she burst into tears.

It chafed her almost to fury, the cold indifference of this man. She repaid it in kind by silent scorn, but beneath it all her heart burned like fire, yearned to punish him, to prove him guilty of that which she suspected.

She did not know that Francis Murray watched her always with a painful interest, and that he had told Mrs. Murray one day that he was glad Italy resembled her father more than her mother. Mrs. Murray had agreed with him, and added:

“She had the face of an angel, but I shudder when I think of those dazzling, dark-blue eyes with their long, curling lashes, and that exquisite face in its framing of golden-brown locks. How beautiful she was, and how wicked! How could she die with her sin unconfessed and not even repented?”

“Italy will tell you nothing of her death?” he asked.

“Nothing. The mere mention of her mother’s death throws her into such agonies of hysterical grief that I am forced to avoid the subject entirely. But it is evident that she loved her far more than she ever deserved!”

CHAPTER III.

ACCUSED OF FRAUD.

“Will you bring me some roses, Italy?” Mrs. Murray asked one day, handing the girl a pretty willow basket.

She had discovered that Italy was always restless and unhappy in the house, and that she liked best to wander alone in the garden among the flowers, or down by the beach, where the great waves came rolling in with their hollow, mysterious murmur of ships gone down at sea.

Italy wandered along the graveled paths, snipping roses into her basket until it overflowed with the fragrant beauties, then she sat down to rest on a rustic bench beneath a magnificent tree.

Her lovely, pensive face grew sad even to pathos. She drew a little heart-shaped gold locket from the chain at her throat, and, unclasping the lids, gazed long and earnestly at a face within. Then she kissed it with clinging lips.

“My dearest one!” she cried passionately aloud.

An approaching step made her conceal the pretty souvenir. The intruder was Francis Murray. There was a strange expression upon his face, something of aroused interest, and, instead of passing by, he bowed and seated himself at the other end of the bench.

“She has a lover, this fair young thing. It was his face she kissed in her locket, it was of him she spoke,” he thought.

He gazed with intent and thoughtful eyes at the slender, white-gowned figure, with its dainty, curving outlines and the lovely face with its proud, dusky eyes.

The lights and shadows of the August moon shifted down through the leaves upon the purplish-dark of her rich, waving hair, and the delicate coloring of her skin, that deepened warmly under his strange gaze. Her heart fluttered with something like pain, and she rose to go.

“No, stay, Miss Vale. I wish to speak to you,” said Francis Murray, in gently imperative tones, and she paused, startled, yet half-defiant, awaiting his will. Looking straight into her face, he asked:

“Miss Vale, are you a sleep-walker?”

Startled, she answered breathlessly:

“No!”

“Are you sure?” quizzically.

“Certainly,” she answered, cresting her little dark head angrily.

“Yet,” said Francis Murray coolly, “you were in the library last night at midnight, dressed in your night-robes. You carried a small night-lamp that you placed upon my desk while you proceeded to search all its compartments that were accessible to your prying eyes. Failing in your eager search, you sighed despairingly, and left the room.”

“Impossible!” cried the girl, in something like horror. Waves of crimson went over her face at first, then it became dead white.

For answer, he held out to her a little comb of carved dead gold, crusted with rubies. He said:

“While you were searching my desk I took this from your hair without waking you. Permit me to restore it.”

She took it with trembling fingers, her face burning with mortification.

“Miss Vale, what motive was it that dominated you in your sleep, and sent you upon that fruitless quest?”

“I cannot tell you,” she faltered, drooping in her seat, her eyes hot with the tears she was too proud to let fall.

“Then I will tell you,” said Francis Murray sternly. “You were searching for your father’s lost diary, the one on whose disappearance so much anxiety hung during your mother’s trial for her husband’s murder.”

Her pale lips parted with a gasp, then closed again without a sound. She could only stare at him with somber, dilated dark eyes.

“I shall tell you something else, also, Miss Vale,” he continued almost angrily, his handsome face quite pale, his blue-gray eyes gleaming with repressed excitement. “I have found you out. You are not the innocent, friendless orphan you pretended when you came here. You are a beautiful little fraud, a clever schemer! No, hear me out—what I have to say.”

Had a yawning chasm opened at her very feet, Italy Vale could scarcely have been more startled and alarmed than she was at the bold accusation of Francis Murray. A smothered cry escaped her lips, and she fell back, half-fainting, in her seat, her dilated dark eyes staring wildly at her accuser, while his words seemed to ring in her ears in clarion tones:

“I have found you out. You are a beautiful little fraud, a clever schemer!”

Yet his voice, though deep and stern, had been very low. He did not wish to attract listeners.

Her stifled outcry, her alarm, looked to him like detected guilt, so that, after that stern, “You shall hear what I have to say,” he went on determinedly:

“You came here, Miss Vale, with a settled purpose. You wish to find out the real murderer of your father. You suspect me. Your only grounds of suspicion are the simple and shallow ones that I was the only beneficiary by your parent’s death. So you came to Winthrop to watch me, to hound me down. Would to God that your wretched mother had lived to save you from this madness!”

“Madness!” echoed the pale, writhing lips of the girl.

He answered hoarsely:

“Yes, madness! You think to avenge your father’s murder. A laudable ambition, Miss Vale, but one fraught for you with inconceivable horrors, for the closer you trace the thread of damning guilt, the deeper will you blacken the memory of your dead mother.”

In her fierce anger she found voice:

“How dare you adjudge her guilty whom the law found innocent?”

Francis Murray groaned:

“I crave your pardon, Miss Vale, for filial affection always merits respect and honor. But, alas, in warning you and dissuading you from this Quixotic venture, my interest and my care are all for Ronald Vale’s daughter—for his memory and for your sake. I conjure you as a friend, let the case rest where it is. Be satisfied with the verdict of the jury—not guilty.”

“Not guilty by the jury, but guilty by the world’s verdict,” she muttered, half to herself, and in her eyes there gleamed a helpless wrath more terrible than tears.

“Will you give up this insane quest?” he demanded earnestly.

The somber eyes flashed defiantly, as she breathed:

“I have not owned to that charge, remember.”

“Yet I have been reading it in your face and actions ever since the first day you came to The Lodge.”

She lifted her dark head proudly, the angry color flaming into her lovely face again.

“So then you are my only accuser—you—and upon no evidence but your own fancy—I will not say a guilty fancy!”

She saw him wince under her intolerable sarcasm, and was bitterly glad that the poisoned dart had struck home.

He looked at her in grave displeasure for a moment, then asked pointedly:

“Do you deny my accusation?”

But Italy was ready with her answer.

“I neither deny nor acknowledge. You have made specific charges against me. It remains for you to prove them!”

But in spite of the pride of her look and tone, he saw that she was ready to burst into tears. She was barely more than a child, in spite of her keen intelligence, but she had been tutored in the hard school of experience, poor Italy. She rose from the seat, taking up the basket of flowers with trembling little hands.

“One more word—Italy!” he exclaimed, with repressed agitation, and she made an impatient pause.

“You are very angry, I know,” he said; “but, believe me, child, all I have said to you was for your own good. I know more of these past matters than you do, more than you ever shall know, if I can keep it from you. No effort of yours, poor child, can ever fasten on me the stigma of a crime of which I am innocent. Let the dead past rest. You must do so. I command you, as your father’s kinsman, as your present guardian, not to interfere with the long-pronounced verdict of the jury—and the world!”

His voice sank almost to a whisper and his face was pale as death, but the pose of the girl’s dark head spoke only defiant scorn. Her eyes met his one moment, and in their somber depths he read her frank conviction of his guilt. Then Italy left him without a word, going along the path to the house, a slim, white shape, peerless in her pride and in her beauty, the flowers carried carelessly upon her rounded arm.

Francis Murray remained some time where she had left him, with a very grave expression on his fair, handsome face. Some troubled words escaped him.

“How beautiful she is, and how wilful and defiant! Will nothing turn her from her purpose?—nothing except the confession to her of the terrible evidence against her dead mother that was withheld at the trial by a true friend for sweet pity’s sake? How could I tell her that, how stab her loyal young heart with the knowledge of her mother’s guilt? Heaven help me, I could not do it. I must find some other way to thwart her insane purpose.”

A strange restlessness had come upon the grave, self-possessed man. Over and over in his mind arose the vision of Italy in every phase in which he had seen her—Italy as she had looked the first day she came, and the days following—Italy last night searching his desk in her somnambulistic sleep—Italy to-day kissing the face in her locket with tender lips—Italy a little later, proud, sarcastic, defiant, yet beautiful in every phase.

He did not feel like returning to the house. He went around to the stable, and had his favorite horse, Rex, saddled, and rode for some time along the beach, until the soothing murmur of old ocean had calmed his restless thoughts.

Later, when he reentered his library, a little white note lay on his desk, addressed to himself, in a refined and girlish hand distinctively beautiful. He read:

“Although I have been your guest for two weeks, I have not failed to understand that I was at The Lodge merely on sufferance, an intruder treated courteously for my dead father’s sake. After what you have said to me to-day, it seems quite clear that you wish me to go away. I will not wait for you to put your desire into plainer words, but, taking the hint, go at once. I hope that you will permit my trunk to remain at The Lodge until I can make it convenient to take it away.

“Begging your pardon for having trespassed so long upon your hospitality,

“Sincerely yours,

Italy Vale.”

Pale with excitement, he burst into his mother’s presence, and thrust the note before her eyes.

“Do you know aught of this?”

She read it with startled eyes.

“Nothing—except that I saw her go out two hours ago, dressed in the plain gray costume she wore when she first came here. I thought she was going to walk by the sea, or, perhaps, for a sail with the young people. She must have gone straight to Boston.”

“To whom?” he asked.

Mrs. Murray mused a moment, then said:

“Did not Mrs. Vale’s lawyer—the only one who believed in her innocence—live in Boston? Perhaps she has gone to him.”

“Gardner, yes, there can scarcely be a doubt of it. I will follow and bring her back.”

He was turning hastily, when suddenly his mother’s hand fell on his coat-sleeve detainingly:

“Frank!”

It was his boyhood’s name. His dignified mother only called him that now in her tenderest moments. He looked back, and she said:

“Lawyer Gardner will take the best of care of the headstrong girl. Why not leave her where she is?”

“Mother!”

Unheeding his surprise, she went on:

“Believe me, it would be for the best. Frank, I have never felt well pleased with Italy’s being at The Lodge. I cannot tell you why, but ever since her coming I have been haunted by a subtle premonition that evil would result from her presence here. There is something not quite frank about her—a veiled something in her eyes that haunts and troubles me. She will bring us sorrow in some shape or form we do not foresee. Let her stay with Lawyer Gardner if she chooses. She is not dependent. Her mother left her a small income that will support her in comfort.”

There was a look in his blue-gray eyes she did not like nor understand.

“I am surprised at you, mother. The girl is our kinswoman; to Lawyer Gardner she is only the daughter of a woman who employed him to defend her against a charge of murder. She has no claim on him.”

“Nor on us,” she ventured feebly.

“Mother, you are unjust. She came to us, she claimed our protection in her orphanage, remember. And she is Ronald Vale’s daughter. Had she been a son, this noble inheritance would never have come to me. We have been cold and unsympathetic to her, both of us. By harsh words to-day I drove her from The Lodge. I shall follow and bring her back at once to a kinder home.”

CHAPTER IV.

IN A SPIDER’S WEB.

Mrs. Murray was right in believing that Italy would seek the protection of the lawyer who had been her mother’s trusted friend.

A railway-journey of only half an hour took the girl away from the pretty New England hamlet, Winthrop, and brought her into the noise and bustle of busy Boston. She engaged a cab at the station, and drove straight to the lawyer’s office on Tremont Street.

It had been late in the afternoon when she held that angry interview with Francis Murray. It was nearly sunset when she paid and dismissed her cab, and, passing across the pavement through the hurrying throngs of people, stepped into the office.

A pert office-boy dashed past as she entered—quitting-time, evidently, and he did not mean to be hindered.

She found herself quite alone in a gloomy little anteroom. But a door was ajar at one end, and she heard the busy scratching of a clerk’s pen. She crossed and looked in.

She saw a handsome office, well furnished, and before a large desk a young man sat alone, scribbling very busily. She rapped softly.

“Come in,” said a curt voice, and the young man looked around, showing a dark, strong face, good-looking, but rather sinister in its impatient scowl. But the frown turned into a smile at sight of the beautiful intruder.

“I—I wish to see Mr. Gardner,” she said timidly.

“Certainly, certainly, miss”—he sprang to his feet with a courteous bow—“I am Craig Severn, his head clerk, and I will hand him your card, please, as our office-boy has gone.”

Italy handed him a dainty bit of pasteboard. He glanced at the pretty name, and again at the pretty face, then disappeared through an open door that led into a narrow hallway. In a few minutes he returned, and said regretfully:

“Mr. Gardner is out at present. Be seated, Miss Vale; he will probably return in a short time.”

He placed a chair for her, and assumed an engaging air.

“Client of Mr. Gardner?”

“No.”

“Relative, eh?”

Italy had heard something about Yankee inquisitiveness, so she smiled just a little, and answered again:

“No.”

“Ah, friend!”

“Ye-es,” she answered timidly, without comprehending the veiled significance of the tone.

She had never known Mr. Gardner, but she felt she had a right to claim her mother’s friend as her own.

Craig Severn smiled broadly, and added:

“Mr. Gardner is a married man, you know?”

“Of course,” she replied carelessly, and added:

“Do you think he will come in soon?”

“I cannot tell. In fact, I expect he has gone home. It is past office-hours now, and I only remained to finish up some papers I was working on.”

Italy rose hastily, her beautiful face clouded with disappointment.

“Where is his home? I must take a cab there at once,” she cried.

“Then you did not know that he lived in the country?” asked the inquisitive clerk.

“No, no”—impatiently. “I may as well tell you, sir, I am a stranger in Boston. Although I was born in America, I have lived abroad since my early childhood. But now I am an orphan, with no near relations, and as Lawyer Gardner was my mother’s true friend, I sailed for this country thinking, thinking——” but her voice faltered and she paused.

“Does he know—does he expect you?” Craig Severn asked eagerly.

“No; I shall take him quite by surprise,” she replied; then, weary of his questioning, that began to appear almost rude, she crested her dark head almost haughtily, and added:

“You must not detain me, sir, with idle questions. Please give me Mr. Gardner’s address at once.”

Craig Severn’s intensely black eyes were glittering strangely. It was most unfortunate for her that she had thoughtlessly confided her sad story to his ears—an orphan and a stranger, alone and friendless in a great, wicked city—and she so beautiful!

“Mr. Gardner’s house is out in the suburbs of Boston—several miles distant,” declared the clerk. “But I am going in that direction, for I live close to him, so I will be glad to show you the way, if you will accept my escort.”

Unnerved and troubled by the occurrences of the day, she did not notice how ambiguous his words were. She bowed assent to his offer, glad of assistance in her search for the only friend she could claim in all wide America.

A few moments later they were seated side by side in a cab, riding rapidly toward their destination. Italy’s companion exerted himself to be entertaining while she listened almost in silence and with a desolate pain at her heart as she thought how easily she had been vanquished in her brave attempt at piercing the dark veil of a hidden and torturing mystery.

Was it a mockery of Fate that within a few blocks of the law-office there whirled past them a light, open vehicle, in which sat a man of magnificent physique, with a fair, handsome face, clouded and grave now with keen anxiety? Italy saw him and drew back from sight with a stifled cry.

“What is the matter?” asked Craig Severn, and she answered evasively:

“Nothing.”

But to herself she said:

“Mr. Murray suspected I had gone to Mr. Gardner for protection. He is following, searching for me. Perhaps he repents his harshness, and has come to take me back. He will soon find me at the lawyer’s,” and somehow the desolate pain at her heart grew less keen and bitter.

“Here we are,” said Craig Severn presently, and, having dismissed the cab, he led Italy up a broad, graveled path to a house built of red bricks in an old-fashioned style, and standing in a thick grove of trees. It was at some distance from any other habitation, and the dark front and shuttered windows looked very gloomy in the deepening twilight and the shadows of the trees.

Italy’s heart sank strangely while they waited after ringing the door-bell. Would Mr. Gardner be angry at her unceremonious invasion? Would his wife be kind and tender? Would they help her in her quest, or, like Francis Murray, “command her not to interfere with the long-pronounced verdict of the jury—and the world?”

A trim maid admitted them into a dim, square hall, and then to a bright, well-furnished parlor.

“You will wait here just one moment, while I bring Mr. Gardner from his study to welcome you,” Craig Severn said, disappearing.

Italy’s glance, roving carelessly at first from one to another of the handsome pictures that adorned the walls, suddenly paused with some interest before a portrait, half life-size, that hung over the mantel.

It was a man’s face, not strictly handsome, but fascinating, as many faces are. The brow was high and white, the hair dark and thin, with curling locks at the parting; the eyes were dark, keen, and mirthful, closely set together over a handsome nose, large in size and almost Roman in shape, just enough to give the face a slight Jewish cast.

A round, almost womanish chin, indented with a very slight dimple, supplemented a weak mouth, the curve of whose thin red lips was scarcely hidden by a thin black mustache, elaborately curled at the ends, bespeaking some masculine vanity. At first glance this face seemed very boyish. A closer inspection showed the lines of at least thirty years. To this portrait Italy’s eyes returned again and again while she waited.

“How handsome it is, how winning,” she thought; then she grew restless.

She contrasted it in her thoughts with the fair, grave, intellectual face of Francis Murray.

“Pshaw! I do not think it compares with Mr. Murray. It looks like a Jew!” she murmured, beginning to find flaws all at once; and she was just turning her back on it, when the door opened and Craig Severn returned, accompanied by a fine-looking, showily dressed woman past the middle age.

“Mrs. Gardner, your husband’s friend, Miss Vale,” he said smoothly.

Mrs. Gardner welcomed her effusively.

“I am charmed to welcome you to my home, dear Miss Vale, and I hope you will remain our guest for a long time. I am so sorry that my husband went out to a neighbor’s a while ago, to write a will for a dying man, but he will be back in about an hour, I think. Let me help you to remove your hat, dear child, and then, if you will excuse me, I will go out and send a servant to hasten my husband’s return.”

Purring like a graceful tabby cat, she hastened out, leaving the pair of young people alone.

Craig Severn immediately drew his own chair close to Italy’s side, and murmured tenderly:

“I am very glad to have this opportunity of declaring my sentiments for you, Miss Vale. Fair one, your grace and beauty have carried my heart by storm. I love you!”

He attempted to take her hand, but she withdrew it indignantly, her large eyes flashing with surprise and scorn.

“Sir, your words are presumptuous. You are little more than a stranger to me!”

“No, no. I love you as fondly as though I had known you for years!” he cried, and flung himself at her feet with passionate protestations of devotion.

Italy was bitterly disgusted. She repulsed her would-be lover angrily.

“Rise. I will hear no more,” she exclaimed.

“You shall listen!”

“I will not. I dislike you very much, and no power could force me to marry you!” she cried.

Craig Severn laughed harshly, and sprang to his feet.

“Who was talking of marriage? I only asked you for your love, my pretty queen,” he cried insolently.

With a face of horror, Italy flew to the door.

“I will appeal to Mr. Gardner for protection from your insults!” she cried stormily.

Her persecutor laughed tauntingly, for the door resisted her efforts. It was locked on the outside.

“Open the door at once, or I will scream and rouse the whole house!” she exclaimed imperiously.

But he stood calmly in the middle of the room, surveying her ineffectual struggles with the door-knob with a tantalizing smile.

“Scream as much as you like, pretty one, but no one will heed you,” he returned coolly; “Mrs. Gardner—Smith is her real name, by the way—is only the housekeeper here, and will not interfere with me. I’ll make a clean breast of the whole thing, my sweet little girlie. Mr. Gardner is abroad, and I’m in charge of his office till he returns. When you came to seek him I fell in love with your black eyes and red lips, and as soon as you owned up to the facts about yourself, I pitied your loneliness and fixed up this little plan to win your heart!”

“Fiend!” cried the girl indignantly; but with that cool smile, he continued:

“This house isn’t Gardner’s, either. It belongs to a rich bachelor friend of mine, now absent, who keeps up the place as a sort of private club-house for his intimates. We have jolly times here, I tell you—suppers, cards, wine, and—sometimes—pretty women, actresses and dancers, you know, but all on the strictly quiet, for if it were known of any woman that she ever set foot here she could never have any social standing afterward.”

He paused, for the white horror and anguish of her lovely face showed that she took in all his brutal meaning.

“Oh, Heaven!” she thought, “how careless I was to fall into this trap! To think, only to think, how I drew back from Mr. Murray’s sight but a few hours ago, when I ought to have been crying out to him to save me from this demon! May Heaven guide me now!”

Her tormentor resumed calmly:

“You came here with me willingly, and in so doing placed the stain upon your reputation that nothing can ever wipe out. But what does that matter, since you have no friends to miss you? I love you madly, and you are wholly in my power. I shall keep you shut up in this house until you consent to love me and be mine. That will not be long, I’m sure, for many other women have loved me, and so will you at last. You need not look so pale and alarmed. I shall attempt no harshness. I shall woo you like a lover till I win your heart. I will be patient, darling, but one kiss you must give me now to pay me for my waiting!”

“Back! Do not dare to touch me!” she cried madly.

But his outstretched arms clasped the shuddering form, his hot breath fanned her cheek.

She struggled wildly, but she was like a reed in his strong grasp, and his lips almost touched hers, when—suddenly there rang through the room a pistol-shot!

A pistol-shot—a flash of light so close that it scorched Italy’s cheek, a thread of thin blue smoke, a sharp report—then—the arms that held Italy so tight fell apart, the lips that would have pressed hers parted with a groan, the blood spurted from Craig Severn’s heart, and he fell backward—gasping, dying, dead! But who had fired the fatal shot?

As the victim fell Italy heard one great cry of horror and despair.

“Oh, God, I have killed him!”

Her eyes flashed toward the window, for she recalled the crashing of glass mingling with the sound of the shot.

She saw that the silken curtains were looped aside, and that some one had opened the outside shutters of the window. In the sash there was one pane, shattered into fragments. Above it Italy saw gleaming a wild, white, anguished face, a woman’s face—one that she knew, one that she had seen only that forenoon, bright, insolent, smiling.

One moment that face gleamed ghostlike in the gloom outside the window, and it seemed to her, too, that there were white hands flung upward—white, jeweled hands, writhing in fierce despair—then the eerie vision faded from her sight, and Italy was alone—alone with the dead man whose treachery had brought her to this awful pass, and whose punishment had been meted out to him so swiftly.

She stood silent one moment, like one in a trance. She heard, as in a painful dream, steps and voices in the hall outside the door—the key grated in the lock. Somebody was coming. Perhaps it would be said that she killed this monster—Craig Severn.

Her tortured senses reeled and failed. She fell in a crouching, senseless heap behind the door, and her dark robes trailed in the pool of warm blood.

CHAPTER V.

HER FATHER’S FRIEND.

To the guests of Mrs. Murray the news of Italy’s sudden departure had proved as great a surprise as her coming.

Mrs. Murray had simply announced that Italy Vale, after a misunderstanding with Francis, had left the house in a pet, going, no doubt, to Lawyer Gardner, her mother’s old friend, in Boston. Francis had gone to bring her back, but she supposed that the girl was too deeply offended to return.

The lady had frankly told all that she knew. Her son had withheld from her his suspicions of Italy and the sleep-walking incident. It seemed to him a disloyal thing to betray her, so he kept everything hidden in his own breast.

Mrs. Dunn and her niece, Alys, looked delighted at the news. Alexie and the two young men frankly expressed regret.

“I was beginning to love her,” said Alexie, unmindful of her sister’s frown.

“And so was Emmett, I think,” laughed Ralph Allen, with a twinkling glance of raillery at his friend Harlow.

“Useless to attempt a denial. Circumstantial evidence convicts me,” was the gay retort.

Mrs. Dunn looked disgusted.

“I do not admire your taste,” she said tartly. “That foreign creature never had any attractions for me!”

“Oh, Aunt Ione, she was very charming!” cried Alexie warmly, but her aunt silenced her with a scowl of displeasure, and Alys snapped rudely:

“I hope she will never come back!”

Mrs. Murray was too courteous to express her opinion aloud, but at heart she agreed with Alys Audenreid.

Mrs. Dunn presently discovered that she wished to go to Boston that evening, to remain until the next day.

“Some shopping,” she said carelessly, and declining the offered company of the girls, and promising to return the next afternoon, she made a smiling adieu and departed.

Francis Murray, too, remained in Boston until the next morning. At breakfast he showed a very pale and anxious face to all.

“I am very much troubled,” he said frankly. “Lawyer Gardner, I learn, has shut up his house and gone to Europe, so if Italy went to him she was disappointed. I have been the round of the hotels, but she is not at any of them, and I feel very uneasy over her fate.”

“You should not worry, for the girl is quite capable of taking care of herself. Remember, she came here alone from Europe,” said his mother, in a tone of slight impatience.

She felt sure herself that all was well with the wilful girl.

“You do not suppose that she can have—committed suicide?” queried tender-hearted Alexie anxiously.

“Certainly not!” he answered almost sharply, but his face grew paler still, and he wished to himself that Alexie had not put such an uncanny thought into words.

Alys had drawn the morning’s paper from her host’s plate, and was scanning it eagerly. She looked up, and said, with a malicious smile:

“Here is a young girl found wandering the streets of Boston in her night-dress at midnight. Perhaps that is your protegée, Mr. Murray.”

“Read it aloud, Alys!” cried her sister eagerly.

Alys smoothed out the paper with deliberate white fingers while they waited impatiently, then she said:

“I don’t like to read aloud, and this is such a long paragraph, so I’ll tell it in my own words. A beautiful young girl was found last night by a policeman walking along the street, clad only in a thin, white night-dress. She seemed to be in a somnambulistic sleep, and was frightened nearly to death when the policeman woke her. She would not or could not tell anything about herself, so they carried her to a police-station, and placed her in the matron’s care.”

No one was usually more calm and courteous than Francis Murray. But at this thrilling moment excitement overcame him. He took the newspaper hastily from Miss Audenreid’s hands, exclaiming hoarsely:

“Permit me!”

What he read there decided him. He rose hastily without finishing his breakfast.

“I will go and see this girl,” he said, and his mother cried out impatiently:

“Do finish your coffee, Francis, before you start on such a wild-goose chase, for I am sure the girl cannot be Italy Vale.”

He did not tell her what good grounds he had for supposing that the mysterious somnambulist was Italy. He only answered:

“Something tells me I had better go! Mother, I should like you to send your maid along with me, with some clothing for Miss Vale to wear home.”

“Certainly,” she answered, but her heart was at war with her promise. The eager interest he betrayed in Italy Vale troubled her mind.

“Surely the girl has some other friends in the world, and I hope she’s gone to them,” she thought. “I am frightened at the strange interest my son has suddenly displayed in this missing girl. Last night was spent in the search for her, and this morning he looks careworn and haggard. What if he is unconsciously falling in love with this beautiful creature whom no one would care to marry, on account of her mother’s deep disgrace?”

She sighed deeply. She was proud—very proud. She could not contemplate such a thing without horror.

“Yet what can I do?” she thought helplessly. “Francis will do as he pleases. There’s no fool like an old fool, they say, and my son is really getting on in years—thirty-two his next birthday. Italy is too young for him, but there’s Alys just of a suitable age, and a better match. She loves the ground he walks on, too, and if he would only marry her I would be quite happy.”

But it is not given to many people in this world to be “quite happy,” and the Fates we pursue elude us ever. What is to be, will be.

Francis Murray, with all his years and experience, was stumbling blindly forward on a road that he called Duty.

He had no difficulty in finding out the police-station where the beautiful somnambulist had been detained until she could give some account of herself or her friends.

The elderly matron was cheerful and polite. She told him that her charge had been very strange—like one dazed—and refused to tell her name, begging for clothes in which to go away.

“She is asleep on my little cot now, sir, but if you wish I will open the door and you may look in to see if it’s the one you’re looking for,” she said kindly.

He had told her simply that a young schoolgirl, an habitual sleep-walker, had wandered away from her home last night. Her friends had searched for her in vain, and were glad to find out her whereabouts from the morning papers, but thankful that she had declined to give her name. If it proved to be the girl he thought, he hoped no more facts might get into the papers. As he said this, the gentleman slipped the good soul a bank-bill, murmuring something about “a new bonnet.”

Her heart was instantly won, and, whispering back that she would see that his wishes were obeyed, she opened the door and beckoned him to approach.

He followed with a quickened heart-throb, and gazed eagerly into the tiny apartment where, on a narrow cot-bed lay the form of a young girl at rest, the white coverlet drawn up to her shoulders, a mass of tumbled, black silken curls straying over the pillow, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of slumber, her red lips parted a little with now and then a sobbing breath, as though she could not forget her sorrows, even in sleep—Italy!

“It is she!” he said, in a strange voice, and beckoned to the maid.

“Go in and awake her. Help her to dress, and tell her I am waiting to take her home,” he said.

He withdrew and closed the door. In a little while the maid came out again.

“Miss Vale is up and dressed, sir, and wishes to speak to you alone a few moments.”

The maid had brought Italy a dark summer silk figured with violets, and a dainty hat to match. She looked very lovely in them as Mr. Murray entered with a quiet:

“Good morning.”

“How did you find me?” she exclaimed abruptly, and when he told her she blushed deepest crimson.

“Walking again in your sleep,” he said. “Really, Miss Vale, I would advise you to lock your doors and hide the keys before retiring hereafter.”

“I will,” she replied earnestly, and he continued:

“I ought to scold you for running away like a naughty child, but I suppose you have been sufficiently punished by finding Mr. Gardner gone away.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she sighed.

“Do you know that I was in Boston all night searching for you? I went the rounds of all the principal hotels, and I was surprised not to find you at any of them. Where did you stay last night?”

There was a moment’s blank silence. Italy’s slender gloved hands were writhing together nervously in her lap, and her face flamed burning red, then pale again. She faltered, with downcast eyes:

“I—I—did not go to a large hotel. It was a small house.”

“If you will give me the address, I will send the maid there to settle your bill and bring away your clothes.”

She lifted up wild, frightened eyes, and she gasped faintly:

“I—I—paid my bill in advance, and the clothes really do not matter—that old gray traveling-dress, you know. And, indeed I don’t think I can recall the address. I have forgotten the street.”

“Then are you ready to come home with me?”

The dark eyes looked up at him with strange, piteous doubt, the red lips faltered, as she asked:

“You cannot surely wish me to come—after yesterday?”

“Let us forget yesterday,” Francis Murray answered, with a constrained laugh. “Perhaps I was too harsh and you too hasty. At least, you were wrong to go away like that. Your proper home is with my mother, so you must come back with me to The Lodge.”

Her eyes kept searching his face. She was surprised that he was so much kinder now than in the weeks past.

“I ought not to go back again. You—you—hate me!” she cried, and he smiled at her vehemence, and answered coolly:

“No, not quite!”

She looked so frightened, so doubtful, he was moved to a little act of kindness. He put out his hand and took her cold, trembling one in a firm clasp.

“I am your friend, Italy—your true friend,” he said gently. “And for your father’s sake, I want to watch over you. Come with me now. The cab is waiting.”

She drew her hand quickly from his, startled by the thrill that stirred her heart at his warm, magnetic clasp. And to herself she cried shudderingly:

“My friend, no, no; I must not call him my friend. I ought to go back to Europe. What is the use staying here now? He suspects me—watches me. My hands are tied.”

“Come,” he repeated, with gentle impatience, and some compelling power in the clear voice, resistless as the tide of fate, made her rise and follow him.

On the way to Winthrop they said but little. The curious maid was close at hand always, but Italy did not care to talk. She was recalling with horror last night’s events—events that must remain forever locked in her own breast.

And Italy, who had gone away so angrily yesterday from Winthrop, was now secretly glad to get back; so glad of the peace and security to which she was going back that she could have fallen at Francis Murray’s feet in gratitude for the gentle force that had compelled her to return.

“Have I wronged him by my suspicions? Is he as good and true and noble as he seems?” she asked herself, with strangely softened feelings.

They were going up the walk to the house. A chattering group was on the broad porch, and suddenly Francis Murray exclaimed:

“There is our friend that we have been expecting for a week past. He must have arrived after I left this morning. You will like him, I am sure, Italy, for he is very pleasant, and, besides, he was your father’s dearest friend. Perhaps you have heard your mother speak of him. His name is Percy Seabright.”

“No,” she answered, in surprise, and then she saw that the subject of their talk was running down the steps to greet them. He was tall, slender, elegant, and Italy looked up eagerly to meet her father’s dearest friend. That face! She gave one look and fainted at his feet.

It was no wonder that Italy’s senses had failed her, for at the first glance at Percy Seabright she had recognized in him the original of the fascinating portrait she had seen over the mantel in the parlor of that horror-haunted house last night—the same face exactly, although older by at least five years, but carrying the marks of age so lightly that at five-and-thirty the handsome, Jewish-looking face still bore an expression of debonair youth and almost boyish beauty.

Italy had fallen on her face, and both men stooped quickly to raise her up.

Francis Murray was first, and slipping his arm beneath her shoulder he lifted the death-white face. The girl’s eyes were closed, and her head fell heavily back against him. He took her into his arms and carried her into the porch, followed by Mr. Seabright, who exclaimed ruefully:

“I must be turning into an ogre, the way I am frightening ladies to-day! First there was Mrs. Dunn, who shrieked and fainted when I made my bow to her this morning, and now here is Miss Vale frightened at the first sight of me! Do you see anything alarming about me, Mr. Murray?”

“Nothing!” answered Francis Murray, almost curtly, as he laid Italy upon a couch where the wind could blow over her pale face revivingly, but Ralph Allen exclaimed banteringly:

“You strike them all senseless by the power of your fascinations, Mr. Seabright. I am surprised that Alexie and Miss Alys did not fall unconscious, too, before your dazzling glance!”

The ladies, with the exception of Mrs. Dunn, all crowded round Italy, but the more skilful maid motioned them away.

“I think Mr. Murray had better carry her to her room. I want to loosen her clothes, for this is no common faint,” she said gravely.

So once again Francis Murray took Italy up like a child in his arms, and carried her to the room she had left in bitter anger yesterday. She lay still as death against his breast, but his face looked calm and quiet as usual. Who was to tell that his heart was beating violently against its precious burden? Who could guess that a mad longing overcame him to strain her close and kiss the white cheek lying on his shoulder so near to his lips? It wrenched his heart to put her out of his arms and leave her there to the care of the maid and his cold-faced mother, just now entering.

“Shall I call a physician?” he asked anxiously.

“It is not necessary,” she replied indifferently, and closed the door on his troubled face.

He could not return to the guests below just yet. He walked the length of the hall and paused a while in the embrasure of the window, looking out at the restless sea.

There had been a high wind last night, and in the storm a pretty little sloop had gone to pieces. The wreck had washed up on Winthrop beach, and lay there now idly in the full sunlight of the day, while the waves, still a little rough and heady, came breaking against the ruined hull with sharp reports, spattering the powdery spray high in the air. Some heaps of drift dotted the sands, and the glancing wings of sea-gulls flashed over the waters here and there. Francis Murray seemed to be looking at these things, but in reality it was a vacant stare. He was looking into his own heart.

He was startled at the violence of his own emotions now and while he had carried helpless Italy close in his strong arms.

Since the day when she had come first to The Lodge, and he had received her unwillingly as a guest, his life had been altered—into its calm, scholarly quiet had crept a strange and subtile unrest.

He had begun by disliking Italy Vale for her mother’s sake, and this very dislike created a strange tumult within him. He had watched her closely, and yesterday, when he had spoken to her so harshly it had seemed to him that dislike had turned into actual hate.

What had happened to him since yesterday? Was his heart in revolt against his judgment and his reason? Was it a boy’s heart, still to be thrilled by somber dark eyes, a red mouth like a flower, and the warmth of a little helpless form carried tenderly in his arms?

“I cannot help but pity her,” he murmured, as if that accounted for all.

He was startled from his musings presently by the voice of his mother.

“After all, Frank, I believe you had better call in Doctor Barksdale. Italy’s swoon is so heavy that we do not know what to do.”

Doctor Barksdale came promptly, but it required all the skill he was possessed of to restore the young girl to consciousness.

Then a week passed before she came out of her own room again.

A light attack of brain-fever had followed her swoon. Fortunately, it was very mild and soon subdued.

In the meantime the Boston papers had duly chronicled the mysterious disappearance of Craig Severn, a young lawyer, who had been in charge of Lawyer Gardner’s office while the latter was abroad resting from overwork. The young wife of Mr. Severn, it was said, was almost frantic with grief, and feared foul play.

Uncharitable people declared that Severn had led a fast life, and had, perhaps, disappeared with his employer’s funds. Mr. Gardner had been advised by cable of the facts.

On the very day that Italy arose from her sick-bed, the newspapers announced the finding of Craig Severn’s body in the river, badly decomposed, and with a bullet-wound in the breast, showing that he had been murdered.

CHAPTER VI.

EMMETT’S PLEA.

“Miss Vale, I hope you did not conceive an aversion for me the day you fainted so tragically at my feet,” said Percy Seabright.

He had found Italy alone on the wide porch fronting the sea, a few days after her recovery. A chilly east wind blew from the beach, in spite of the warm sunshine, and she wore a picturesque dark-red cloak about the shoulders of her white serge yachting-dress with its smart gilt anchors. She had promised to join the yacht-club in a charming excursion that day. His voice was very kind and solicitous, and she answered frankly:

“Oh, no, no, Mr. Seabright. On the contrary, I was prepared to like you very much, for Mr. Murray had been telling me that you were my father’s dearest friend.”

Instantly a peculiar change came over his face. He had been smiling, but the smile faded into sadness and gloom on the lips and in the eyes, and his dark cheek seemed to grow livid with silent emotion.

“Oh, forgive me!” cried the girl impulsively, and her heart warmed toward him. “You loved him, and it grieves you still to remember his sad fate.”

“Yes, I loved him,” Percy Seabright answered huskily, “and as Mr. Murray has told you, I was Ronald’s dearest friend. Will you be my friend, too—for his sake?”

He held out to her a graceful white hand, and after a moment’s embarrassed pause, Italy placed hers in it, meeting a warm, strong pressure that she permitted but did not return. Some strange emotion thrilled her at the touch, she hardly knew whether it was pleasure or repulsion.

“Will you promise to be my friend?” he repeated, in an eager, impulsive way, with a winning smile.

“I—hope—I—will,” she answered, a little deliberately; “I scarcely know you yet, you know, and I am not used to choosing friends so quickly. Mama always told me it was rash to do so—that one might be mistaken, and that friends should be tried and proved—but still, you were my father’s friend. He loved you, trusted you.”

“And why not you?” he exclaimed, with a persuasive glance of his bright dark eyes that somehow won her to reply:

“I will.”

He thanked her fervently, and then she continued:

“I am so glad to have a single true friend—one who knows the past, one who might help me.”

“Tell me what I can do for you. I am ready and willing”—eagerly.

The surf beat loud and sharply on the beach, the wind rose and whistled around the corners of the house and through the stately fir-trees with a soughing murmur. If she had listened to them, they would have sounded eerily, warningly, in her ears, but she heard only that low-toned, persuasive voice, saw only the dazzling dark eyes bent with an intense gaze upon her own, inviting her confidence. She looked up at him with big, solemn eyes.

“I will confide in you,” she said impetuously. “I will tell you the dream, the aim, the purpose of my life. It is to clear the memory of my mother from the stain that rests upon it, to find and to punish my father’s murderer.”

The girl’s low voice was tragic in its intensity. No wonder it impressed him, no wonder he suddenly grew ghastly pale and grave.

“You are mad!” he uttered hoarsely.

“No, no; do not say it,” she breathed imploringly. “Listen—my mother was innocent—she swore it to me before she—before I lost her. She believed that the clue to the murderer would be found in some of the secrets of my father’s diary. You remember how eagerly she sought for the diary after his terrible death? Well, it was never, never found, you know, and she believed that it was carried off or destroyed by the murderer. Oh, I would give the world to find that missing book! Help me to seek it, help me to find it, my friend!” cried Italy, in rising agitation.

Emmett Harlow came up to them before Percy Seabright could reply to her words.

“Miss Vale, we are going to start now. Are you ready?” he asked.

Something of surprise in the clear blue eyes of the young man struck Italy with sudden embarrassment, and she rose quickly.

“Yes; I am quite ready,” she said, and moved away by his side, to join the house-party who were waiting. Mr. Murray with Alys Audenreid, Ralph Allen with his sweetheart, Alexie, and Mrs. Dunn alone, expecting to have Percy Seabright for her escort.

As Italy came up with Emmett she flashed a look of furious anger at the girl from her peculiar eyes that could change rapidly from the soft blue of love to the greenish fires of jealousy and hate.

Italy started as she met that baleful look. She remembered suddenly what Emmett Harlow had once told her about Mrs. Dunn’s love for Percy Seabright.

A cold chill of terror crept along the girl’s veins. She knew that Mrs. Dunn was a woman to be feared, and she comprehended that the compact of friendship just made between herself and Mrs. Dunn’s lover would expose her to the former’s jealous wrath.

When the party were all upon the yacht and she was floating in graceful majesty upon the blue waves, Emmett Harlow found a seat for himself and Italy a little apart from the rest. Then looking tenderly into her serious face, he said:

“Mrs. Dunn was watching you at a little distance while you carried on your little flirtation with her lover.”

“Flirtation!” cried Italy, with a resentful toss of her pretty head.

“It looked like it,” he replied pointedly, although with a smile. “He clasped your hand, and you looked into each other’s eyes with absorbing interest.”

“So you were watching, too!” the girl exclaimed, provoked.

“I was with the others. Pardon me,” Emmett answered, in a quiet tone, but with a look of pain.

She saw the pained look and her anger melted quickly. Emmett Harlow had one of those rare natures that always inspire kindly thoughts. No one could be angry with him long.

“It was not a flirtation, Mr. Harlow,” she said gently. “Mr. Seabright was only asking me to be his friend. He was my dead father’s friend, you know, and he wished also to be mine.”

“And you promised him?” asked Emmett Harlow gravely.

“How could I refuse his offered friendship—I who have so few friends?” she exclaimed pathetically.

“You have one friend, Miss Vale, who would lay down his life for you!” exclaimed the young man fervidly, and Italy, with a blush and start, realized that she had a lover—a lover, that desire of every young girl’s heart. But when he went on in tender, fervent words to tell her of his love and his hopes, she begged him to desist.

“I will be your friend always, but I shall never love nor marry. I have no time for such trivial things. I have a greater mission in life,” she replied, almost loftily.

The rejected lover stared at her in profound surprise.

“A greater mission,” he murmured. “Not—not—woman’s rights, I hope.”

“N-not exactly,” Italy answered vaguely, and at this moment she became aware that Mr. Murray and Alys Audenreid were observing her rather closely. She could fancy without hearing a word that Alys was saying something spiteful. What she was saying was this:

“Mr. Murray, your little protégée is a dreadful flirt.”

“How can you say so?” he cried, but yet he was not blind.

“Only look at her now how she is leading poor Emmett Harlow on,” continued the pretty blonde; “and just before we started she was making love with her eyes to Mr. Seabright. She even gave him her hand to hold. I could see that Aunt Ione was furious. You know, he tries her sorely with his flirtations. I do believe that his promise to marry her is all moonshine.”

“Why don’t she give him his congé, then? He has postponed the wedding twice, I know, and the old women say, don’t they, Alys, that postponed weddings are unlucky?” he rejoined carelessly, trying to attend to her and yet lose no glimpse of the pretty by-play over yonder, the eager face of Emmett, the downcast one of the girl.

“Emmett is rich and well-born. Would he marry poor Italy, with the brand of her mother’s disgrace hanging darkly over her young life?” he mused.

At that moment Emmett was saying to the young girl:

“You will think me jealous and envious now, perhaps, and yet I must tell you that I am sorry you have promised your friendship to Mr. Seabright. I do not like that man. He is different from what he seems—cold at heart and deceitful.”

“I thought every one liked him!” she cried.

“Every one but me,” he answered frankly; “I am the only one to find a fault in him. And yet his faults are patent to all if they would only realize the fact.”

“Tell me of one single blemish!” the girl cried, half-offended.

“Very well. He is not sincere. He makes game of the friend he professes to love. He is witty, and they all become targets for his wit. Poor Mrs. Dunn, sitting so happily by his side there, she would never speak to him again if she knew how he talks her over to his friends.”

Italy was looking and listening in wonder. Could these facts be true?

“He has carried on a flirtation with her for years, and yet she is so blind she will not see that he is only trifling,” continued Emmett. “Yet he has made fun of her from the first time he met her till now. You see that beautiful diamond ring on his little finger? He has told dozens of people that Mrs. Dunn begged him for it the first time he ever called on her, and he said he told her the first ready lie that leaped to his lips, that the ring belonged to his brother. He says she is rapacious, that she lives above her means, and cares for nothing but show and pleasure. Oh, he has said so many things of her that I would hate to repeat, but I call it mean, don’t you? to ridicule a woman, her house, her relations, and everything about her, and still pretend to be her friend, even her lover?”

“It is wicked, shameful,” she exclaimed warmly. “How can any one be so deceitful? I am sorry for Mrs. Dunn.”

“As to that, she is as mean a woman as he is a man, and if they ever do get married they will be fairly matched. To tell you the truth, I dislike them both, so let’s drop the subject and talk of something pleasanter, for to-morrow I am going to leave Winthrop,” replied the young man, with as indifferent an air as he could assume, for the pain of his rejection, although so gently spoken, still hurt bitterly.

“Going away!” she cried.

“Yes; back to Boston, and I shall probably sail for Europe next week,” sighed the rejected lover sadly.

“Oh, I am so sorry, for I shall miss you very much. You have been so good to me.”

“Then perhaps you will relent”—pleadingly—“you will let me try again to win your love. Oh, Italy, think how lonely you are, how alone in the world, and surrounded by people some of whom dislike you, while the others only tolerate you. But I—I worship you, my darling, and I would be so happy if you would only let me marry you and take you away to a happier home.”

Profoundly moved as she was by his words, she still shook her head.

“I cannot marry you,” she said simply but conclusively.

“Then, dear, I shall go away, as I said, and not trouble you with my love, but when I am far away will you think of me sometimes, Italy, and—if you should ever need me or want me—send for me, for if you will not have me for your husband, I can still be your friend,” said the young man earnestly and sadly.

Before Italy could answer in the grateful words her heart prompted, Ralph Allen called to them across the deck:

“Why are you two over there looking so glum? Do come over here and listen to the funny joke Alexie is telling me.”

“Let us hear it, too,” exclaimed Percy Seabright. “Come, Ione,” and he led her rather unwillingly to join the gay group, for Mr. Murray and Alys also came with several more of the excursion-party—all friends, and quite at home with each other. Mrs. Dunn did not like to place herself in close contrast to young girls, for she was thirty-five, though she claimed to be ten years younger, and her figure, which was short and dumpy, did not look well in yachting-costume. She wore an immense red hat which served to increase the squat effect of her plump form in its showy costume of garnet and gold.

She was in an ill-concealed temper, and it did not improve it to see her betrothed place himself close to Italy’s side, where she stood leaning against the deck-rail, looking down with sad, somber eyes into the deep-blue water. Emmett Harlow was on the other side of her, and his expression of profound melancholy told the story of his disappointment without words.

“Go on with your story, Alexie,” exclaimed Ralph Allen, who was in a very happy mood to-day, and no wonder. A favorite of Fortune from his birth, betrothed to a sweet and lovely girl, and afloat on the daintiest yacht in Winthrop harbor, upon billowy blue waters, under sunny blue skies, with gay companions, how could he be aught but happy?

Pretty Alexie laughed and blushed.

“I’m not sure anybody will be interested in it, but, as I was saying——” she began, when she was interrupted by Percy Seabright.

“Oh, come quick, everybody, and see this great fish!” he exclaimed eagerly, and every one crowded over to the side of the deck, laughing and hustling each other in their haste.

Italy Vale, close to his side, leaned forward with the rest, craning her graceful neck eagerly to catch a sight of the wonder.

How did it happen? Did she lean too far over? Did she lose her balance? All in a moment, Italy’s light form flashed over the rail, and she was struggling, sinking, in the deep-blue sea.

CHAPTER VII.

IN DEADLY PERIL.

Italy’s sudden and terrible accident caused the wildest consternation to the gay pleasure-party on board the beautiful yacht, White Wings, and the shrieks of startled women filled the air. Above all rose the anguished voice of Alexie Audenreid:

“Save her! Oh, save her!”

“My God, I cannot swim!” exclaimed Emmett Harlow despairingly, but even while he spoke there was a splash in the water.

Ralph Allen had thrown off his coat and leaped boldly into the sea at the spot where Italy was sinking from view. He would have been anticipated by Francis Murray, but as he was about to spring over the rail, Alys and her aunt clutched him with all their strength and held him back.

“Oh, do not, do not risk your life for that creature!” shrieked Alys, in hysterical entreaty.

With gentle violence he pushed away their clinging hands.

“For God’s sake, let me go! She will perish!” he exclaimed, and flung off his coat to leap into the sea. But another detaining hand grasped his arm.

“Wait, Francis. Ralph will save her, and there is no need for you to venture.”

It was Percy Seabright. He was pale to ghastliness; his deep eyes glittered with a strange fire. With fierce but repressed anger, Francis Murray struggled out of his grasp.

“There’s no danger. I’m a splendid swimmer!” he cried, and sprang into the sea, mad with anxiety over Italy’s fate.

But Ralph was an athlete, too. He had made a magnificent spring into the water, diving deep down where Italy had sunk. He caught the skirt of her heavy serge gown, clutched it, and rose to the surface with her just as Francis Murray sprang over the rail.

By this time the yacht had been stopped, but there was still one great danger—those in the sea might be sucked down under the yacht by the swirling waters about her prow.

But a little sail-boat at some distance away, having seen the accident and the danger, now came rapidly nearer, and the occupants shouted to Ralph to approach with his burden.

Italy was not unconscious, only terribly alarmed and frightened. When her rescuer brought her up to the surface she caught him wildly about the neck with frantic arms that almost strangled him.

“Do not hold me so tightly; you’ll drown us both!” he cried, trying to unloose her clinging clasp.

But maddened with fear, and deafened by the ocean’s voice, she did not comprehend him; she only clung tighter, shrieking wildly in her terror and fear of death.

It was so terrible to be struggling there in the deep-blue waves, so beautiful, yet so deadly—to be struggling, drowning there beneath the bright, blue, sunny sky, while far away in beauteous Italy one whom she loved was waiting for news—news that would be so awful when it came, telling of the loved one drowned in the cruel sea!

Keen despair, maddening fear, thrilled the poor girl’s heart, and she clung, gasping, desperate, to Ralph Allen’s neck, her white face upturned to the sky, her rich dark tresses streaming on the water, while he, trying in vain to release himself from her frantic embrace, realized with despair keen as her own that death was imminent, inevitable. Both must sink unless she would release her strangling hold and permit him to swim to the approaching sail-boat.

Those who witnessed the struggle from the yacht said afterward that it was the most tragic scene ever witnessed, as Ralph fought wildly for relief from the desperate hold of the white arms of the girl he was trying to rescue.

It must have ended in the death of both, but at that perilous moment in which Ralph began to resign himself to certain death, Francis Murray, swimming like another Leander crossing the Hellespont, came to their assistance. With gentle force he released Ralph, and, taking Italy into his own charge, turned toward the sail-boat that now approached near enough to throw a rope.

The almost-exhausted Ralph clutched it, and strong hands drew him out of danger. In a few moments all three were aboard the sail-boat, and a husky cry of triumph arose from the watchers on the yacht. They were safe, safe!

Presently the sail-boat came alongside the yacht, and they were taken on again, wet and shivering, but not much the worse, after all, for their impromptu immersion.

Restoratives were brought, and the draft seemed to put new strength into the young girl. They were about to lead her into the cabin, but she drew back, and stood among them, pale as a ghost, her dark hair dripping, her face stern. She had heard them whispering whether it was an accident or attempted suicide.

She stood there among them, in her wet, clinging robes, and though she trembled with cold and excitement, her eyes were blazing with indignation.

“No, it was not an accident!” she cried, and her young voice rang sharp and clear, “and neither did I attempt to commit suicide. Why should I wish to die? I am young, and life is sweet. But though I have never harmed any one in my life, I have a secret, unknown enemy aboard, some one who wishes my death!”

Emmett Harlow was close to her side, watching her with eager, loving eyes. As she spoke he started violently, and, in spite of himself, his eyes fastened suspiciously on Mrs. Dunn, who stood a little apart, with her full lips curled into a disdainful sneer. She caught his mutely accusing glance, and answered it with one of venomous hatred.

Italy, without observing this little by-play, went on:

“I did not jump into the sea, nor fall by accident. As the crowd closed in about me, looking for the great fish, I leaned forward very far—and then—then—some one—oh, who could have been so cruel?—gave me an adroit push; I lost my balance, and was struggling in the water.”

A swelling murmur of surprise and incredulity arose from the dozen or so people on the yacht. Faces grew pale and horror-stricken. Surely nothing so horrible could have happened. Fear had turned the girl’s brain.

“Impossible!” cried a shocked voice, but Italy answered fearfully:

“It is true. In this crowd about me there is some one guilty of attempted murder—some one who hates me and wishes me dead.”

“She speaks the truth,” cried a mocking voice. “I saw the cowardly wretch push her over the rail! Ah, rejected love can sometimes turn a man into a fiend.”

It was Mrs. Dunn. Her glance fixed itself boldly on Emmett Harlow, and every eye followed her look. Their glances seemed to transfix him with a basilisk stare. Was it true? Could he be such a monster?

He turned burning red, then ghastly pale beneath their eyes, and cried out wildly:

“Do you suspect me, friends, of so terrible a deed?”

Italy cried out quickly:

“It is not true. Emmett is my true friend. He would not harm one hair of my head.”

Mrs. Dunn’s mocking laughter rose up over the shocked silence of the others.

“No, not your friend—your rejected lover!” she exclaimed. “Your rejected lover maddened by despair, and so jealous that he would rather see you dead than won by another!”

A hand fell suddenly on her arm, and the splendid eyes of Francis Murray looked sternly, rebukingly, into her own. He said earnestly:

“Do not make this awful accusation against our young friend unless you are quite sure of your facts. Perhaps you have made a mistake.”

Under his searching gaze she cowered and crimsoned.

“I—I am certain I saw some one push Miss Vale,” she stammered. “Mr. Harlow was close by her side, and it looked like his arm that gave the push. But—there was such a crowd about them, and, of course, I might have been mistaken. Miss Vale ought to know best. If she thinks I am wrong, I do not wish to press the charge.”

Her eyes fell, but under the lowered lids there was a greenish glitter of gratified hate, and beneath her demure look she was saying to herself:

“I have punished Emmett Harlow. He has always despised me, in spite of his courteous manners. Now I have my revenge.”

A bright glance of thanks flashed from Emmett’s boyish blue eyes upon Francis Murray.

“I thank you, my friend, for your faith in me,” he cried, and they clasped hands.

Then the older man looked confidently around him, saying cordially:

“I believe Mrs. Dunn and Miss Vale were both mistaken in believing the accident was the result of murderous intention. Some one may have jostled Miss Vale, but I feel sure it was accidental.”

Every one took his cue from him, and declared that it was certainly accidental; but Mrs. Dunn, when his back was turned, shrugged her plump shoulders and looked knowing.

The excursion came to a premature end, for Italy had to be taken back at once to change her wet clothes.

When back at The Lodge they all made light of the affair that had been for a few moments so terribly serious.

Ralph would not discuss in earnest his sensations when Italy’s frantic clutch was dragging him down into deadly peril. He declared lightly that his chief anxiety was lest Alexie should be jealous of Italy’s frantic embrace.

But Emmett Harlow felt that he could not remain beneath the same roof with Mrs. Dunn an hour longer. Her deliberate malice had cut him to the heart. He bade a dejected farewell to them all, except the wicked woman who had wronged him so deeply. Her he passed without notice, save one slight glance of withering contempt.

The dew of tears was in Italy’s somber dark eyes as the door closed upon her rejected lover, going away so sadly to forget his brief love-dream. She felt more alone than before, as if some strong, true, protecting influence had gone forever out of her life.

Pale and troubled, she leaned back in the large armchair where Alexie had installed her as a semi-invalid. The others were grouped in careless attitudes about the airy drawing-room, into whose open windows came the strong, sweet scent of the sea, mixed with the odor of flowers in the garden. The ladies were still in their yachting-suits, all but Italy, who wore a half-loose robe of soft white cashmere, with gold embroidery.

Alys Audenreid drew a long breath, and exclaimed:

“I should not look sad over the going of such a cowardly lover as that, Miss Vale. For all he has hung about you and pretended to adore you, he would not risk his life to save you to-day, but left that task to other people’s lovers.”

Alys was almost bursting with jealous anger and resentment, and as Mrs. Murray and Francis had courteously followed Emmett Harlow from the room, she took that opportunity to vent her anger on Italy.

But good-natured Alexie quickly interposed:

“For shame, Alys, when you know Emmett could not swim. He said so.”

Mrs. Dunn, who was sitting at the window, with her betrothed, gave a short laugh.

“That was not true,” she said. “I saw Emmett Harlow at Virginia Beach last summer. He swam splendidly every day there. You were there, Mr. Seabright. Do you not remember it also?”

“Yes,” he replied; adding, “although I do not like to betray Emmett after his singular behavior to-day.”

“Then I am sure he was not feeling well, for I don’t like to believe harm of Emmett. I always liked the boy,” declared Alexie generously, and Italy thanked her by a grateful look. She, too, hated to believe harm of her frank, ingenuous young lover.

“But really, there was no use in Emmett’s risking his life, since Ralph had already jumped. I myself would have sprung to her assistance, only that I saw it was not necessary,” said Percy Seabright.

“I thank you for your kind intentions,” Italy said, giving him a half-sarcastic little nod.

She was watching him under her lowered lids, as he hung around Mrs. Dunn with that air of deep devotion, wondering if it could be true, all that Emmett had told her about this man and woman. Seabright had the courteous manner and airy persiflage of a Frenchman. Was he insincere, as Emmett said? Did he invite and accept the devotion of this woman’s heart, only to laugh at her behind her back with other friends?

She longed to know the truth, for she had promised him her friendship for her father’s sake; she had asked him to help her to trace her father’s murderer. Then, too, she felt inclined to like him. The fascination she had felt for the portrait extended itself to the man.

“But what was it doing there in that dreadful house?” she asked herself shudderingly, “that house of horror and mystery?”

And again that night of horror rushed over her mind—that night of horror, and the woman’s face at the window. She shivered and closed her eyes.

She opened them again and looked at Mrs. Dunn, with her smiling face uplifted to her lover’s gaze. Her very ordinary face was looking its best now; and her peculiar, restless eyes, the only striking feature she had, gleamed with the fires of love. And certainly those glittering dark eyes looking into hers spoke devotion.

Italy gasped and sighed. Could that smiling woman’s face be the same that she had seen convulsed with anguish and horror, those white hands toying idly now with her many rings be the same that were tossed up so desperately into the night and the gloom? Oh, it was like some terrible dream!

“And what was she doing there, watching Craig Severn? Why did she kill him? Was it for my sake, or does she know even that that frantic girl was I? I do not believe that she does,” she decided.

Italy had read the paragraphs in the papers relating to Craig Severn’s mysterious death; she wondered, like every one else, how the body had come to be in the river.

For all of that night was blank to her from the moment when she had fallen senseless in a pool of Craig Severn’s spurting life-blood.

She had read about the lovely young widow who, believing her husband true to her and bitterly lamenting his death, had offered, out of her small fortune, a reward for the apprehension of his murderer.

“How can men be such fiends as that man was while his wife believed him so true and fond?” she thought, with a shudder; and just then a voice sounded in her ear—a very low and gentle voice.

“You look deathly pale and ill, child; you ought to lie down. Permit me to assist you to your room.”

She was glad of the offer, and quickly put her small hand on the offered arm, going out with a small bend of the head to the others, and followed by a glance of jealous hate from Alys Audenreid.

Francis Murray bent his tall head gently to his trembling companion.

“I did not mean to deceive you,” he said gently, “but—before I take you to your room—may I speak to you a few minutes in the library?”

She bowed in silent surprise. What was it now? Was he going to scold her for something?

Opening the door, he led her to a luxurious sofa.

“Rest there while I talk to you,” he said kindly, and the tired head dropped wearily on the silken pillow.

“Emmett has told me everything,” he said. “I am sorry you could not make him happy as he wished. He is good and true. You need not believe what Mrs. Dunn said on the yacht.”

“Yet she is your friend,” the girl returned pointedly.

“Yes—a friend of the family—Percy Seabright introduced her to us, and we made friends with her for his sake. Yet she is in some ways not quite admirable—a strong nature, full of prejudices, and—but we will not discuss the guest beneath our roof—that would be ungenerous. Suffice it to say, she and Emmett Harlow disliked each other, and she—made a mistake. She as much as acknowledged she was wrong, remember.”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“And so I want you to believe in Emmett Harlow, child. He is good and noble. If you could have married him, it would have been a good match.”

“I am not looking for a match of any sort, Mr. Murray.”

“Perhaps not; you are such a child. Yet Emmett could have made a new world for you. He is rich, you know.”

“What does that matter? I should never marry a man for his money!”

He gave a short laugh of veiled approval.

“For what, then—love?”

“No, nor even love while this dark shadow of a mother’s disgrace rests on my name. Do you think I could drag down a man to my level, and through his love for me bring shame upon him? No; but if I loved a man and he loved me, I should say to him: ‘If you indeed love me, help me to clear my mother’s memory from the tragic shadow resting on it, and then I will marry you.’”

Her white arm supported her dark head, and her eyes flashed with intense fire. The loose, curling tresses fell away from her brow and made a rich frame for the small, pale face and exquisite white throat. It flashed over him how maddeningly beautiful she was—beautiful beyond all other women.

“No man can ever help you to do that, Italy, for, alas! it is beyond mortal power,” he sighed.

“I do not believe you!” she flashed wilfully.

But he regarded her with intense pity.

“You are like a helpless little canary beating its wings against its prison-bars,” he said.

“And I will beat my wings until I am free—until my mother’s name is vindicated!” she exclaimed, and again the grave eyes surveyed her in pain and pity, and he breathed:

“God help you, poor child!”

It made her angry. She rose to go.

“One word!” he exclaimed, barring her way. “Italy, I think my mother has told you that I was selfish about the library—that I liked no one to come here. She made a mistake. Will you consider yourself free to come when you choose, to use my books, anything you like, feeling yourself fully welcome?”

His face was flushed—eager. She colored suddenly, too.

“Thank you. Yes, I will come,” she said, moving to the door.

And as he again gave her his arm she murmured very low:

“Do not think me ungrateful to you for helping to save my life because I have not thanked you yet. Believe me——”

“Do not mention it,” he said abruptly and led her in a strange, embarrassed silence to her own door.

CHAPTER VIII.

A MOTHER’S HATE.

At breakfast the next morning Alexie said regretfully:

“Heigho! It is but a few days to the first of September, when we shall all have to go home.”

“We must get all the fun we can out of these last few days,” cried Percy Seabright, as gaily as a boy, and then Ralph Allen said:

“Yesterday, before Italy’s accident, the folks on the yacht were proposing a moonlight party, and wanted us to join them.”

“A moonlight party!” they all echoed.

“You see,” went on Ralph, “the idea is this: You pick out a picturesque place, and sit up to see the moon and sun rise. You have refreshments with plenty of hot tea and coffee; you walk on the beach, you tell stories, you sing, you recite, and perhaps go sailing. I am told that the chaperons frown on courting; but if we can get Mrs. Dunn to chaperon us I am sure she will be more lenient out of sympathy for us.”

“Splendid!” they all cried, for the plan was full of the romance and poetry so dear to youthful hearts.

Mrs. Murray alone tried to throw a damper over them.

“You will catch cold and be sick the next day.”

“We can dress warmly,” said Alys. “I am sure it will not hurt any of us who are used to the climate. But perhaps Miss Vale had better stay at home. She is not used to the raw, eastern winds of Massachusetts.”

“I am going, though. I wouldn’t miss it for anything!” declared Italy, with a spice of girlish diablerie, and thus it was settled.

But Alys was at the point of tears. She wanted to have Francis Murray all to herself on this moonlight party; but she foresaw that he would have to divide his attentions between herself and Italy. She wished now that Emmett Harlow had not gone away.

That night she talked alone with her aunt, complaining bitterly of Francis Murray’s indifference.

“He will never care for me. I have given up all hope of it. He has eyes only for that hateful foreign girl!”

“Indeed, you are mistaken, dear. Mrs. Murray thinks he was quite angry because Italy refused Emmett. That looks as if he was anxious to get rid of her, don’t it?” replied Mrs. Dunn soothingly.

“Oh, if I could only be sure of it,” Alys cried hopefully. “But if she goes on this moonlight party I shall give up all hope. Can’t you hint to Mrs. Murray to keep her at home?”

“I’ll try, dear, and you must keep up hope; she shall not take him from you. I am watching over your interests all the time,” said the scheming aunt, who was very fond of this niece who resembled her in her disposition.

Alys retired much consoled, for she knew that her aunt would stop at nothing to gain her ends.

She was gone, and Mrs. Dunn lay back at ease in her armchair, the loose folds of her gorgeous silk dressing-gown falling richly about her, her strange eyes gleaming with excitement. She mused softly:

“I have Percy Seabright in my power now, and he shall trifle with me no longer. Twice he has postponed our marriage for idle reasons, but I will bear it no longer, and when Alexie marries Ralph, in January, my own wedding shall come off, too, and Alys shall marry Francis Murray then, also, if I can manage it. And I will manage it, unless I have lost my cunning. Francis Murray is losing his head over that girl, I can see it plainly, but his mother will not permit him to marry her, even if he could so far forget himself. But she must be driven away from The Lodge soon, or she will outwit me.”

Then a softer light came into the large blue eyes.

“I feel happy to-night, knowing that Percy does not love Italy,” she thought. “Oh, I have been miserable believing that he did, but, of course, I know better now after what happened to-day. How cleverly I shielded his crime, and punished Emmett Harlow at the same time. And now Percy’s dangerous secret is mine, thank the Fates, but yet I wonder why he hates Miss Vale, and wants her dead?”

Mrs. Dunn thought she had the game in her own hands the next day, when Francis Murray announced at noon that he was compelled to go into Boston for the day, to meet some old friends who were passing through and had written for him to join them in their brief stay in the city.

“You will probably be off on your moonlight party before my return,” he said.

“But you will join us there—oh, do say you will join us there!” exclaimed Alys pleadingly.

“Thank you, I shall be very glad to come,” he answered; then he looked at his mother. “Do not look for me home this evening, for I shall probably be late, and I will go from the station to join the party,” he said.

He went away, and soon Mrs. Dunn found an opportunity to speak alone with her hostess.

“Mrs. Murray, you look unhappy,” she purred sympathetically.

“Oh, no, I am not feeling well to-day, that is all, Mrs. Dunn.”

“My dear friend, you cannot deceive me like that. I am such a true friend to you and yours that I take the privilege of offering you my sympathy. You are unhappy, and it is because you see the growing infatuation of your proud son with this girl, this Italy Vale, whom no man ought to marry because of the stain she will bring upon his name. Oh, it is terrible, the daughter of a vile murderess aspiring to wed one so proud and noble as Mr. Murray!”

Mrs. Murray’s cold, proud face was bitterly troubled.

“I do not want to be unkind to Italy Vale,” she said. “She has a claim on us, and she needs a home, so I cannot conscientiously send her away, and yet I own I am troubled as you describe. Francis has shown strange interest in her, and—and it would break my heart for my son to ally himself to the daughter of a wicked murderess. I will try to keep them apart.”

“That is right. No one could blame you,” cried the wily adviser, and Mrs. Murray, taking courage from her sympathy, declared decidedly:

“She shall not go to-night. Francis will not be here to contradict my authority, and I am determined she shall stay at home.”

And that very hour she said to Italy:

“You look quite pale and ill from your dreadful experience yesterday, and you must not think of going out on the beach with the party to-night.”

“Dear Mrs. Murray, I would not miss it for anything! The very idea has a fascination for me. Please do not oppose my going. I will wrap up warmly, and not take cold,” pleaded Italy.

“I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I am sure you are not well enough, and I distinctly forbid your going,” was the calm reply, in a tone of assured authority that forbade remonstrance.

Italy’s heart sank with disappointment at the arbitrary command, but she offered no rebellion, and saw the gay party leaving for the tryst with unshed tears in her proud dark eyes. She was young, and in spite of her sorrows, had looked forward with eagerness to the moonlight party, which, to her girlish fancy, seemed full of romantic promise. Mrs. Murray’s cold refusal seemed unjust, cruel.

“And,” she said to herself bitterly, “she has no good reason for it. It is only an exhibition of despotic power. She secretly hates me, and likes to make me unhappy.”

With a cold excuse, she left the triumphant woman and retired to her own room, to sit alone by the window and watch the sea and muse upon her own loneliness.

The weather was very warm for the raw climate of Massachusetts. The last days of summer were most balmy and beautiful. It was an ideal night for the moonlight party. The night was calm and clear, and the stars were already sparkling through the purple twilight haze, and beginning to mirror themselves in the heavy sea, but it lacked two hours yet to moonrise.

A sob rose in Italy’s throat as she pictured the gay party on the beach just two miles away, enjoying themselves, while she was so sad and lonely here in the window.

She wondered if Mr. Murray was there yet, and what he would say to her absence. Would he approve of his mother’s arbitrary decision?

As she pictured him by the side of Alys Audenreid, laughing and talking, a strange sense of loss and desolation swelled her heart. She bent her head on her hand and wept wildly.

A quick step came along the hall to her door, paused, and then there was a rap twice repeated, for Italy’s bursting sobs drowned it.

A voice spoke clearly outside:

“Italy, will you please come to the door? I wish to speak to you.”

She caught the voice, the words, and with a joyful heart-throb sprang to open the door.

When Francis Murray spoke, Italy forgot her tears and her sorrow—forgot that she was sitting in the dark, forlorn and wretched.

The light from the hall streamed in upon her pale, tear-wet cheeks and quivering red mouth, and touched him with keenest pain, for before he opened the door he had caught the sound of her bursting sobs. Involuntarily he caught her hand and drew her up close to him, looking at her in deep distress.

“In tears, my—child!” he exclaimed huskily. “Are you ill, or—only sad?”

She drew back quickly from him, ashamed of the tears she had forgotten in the joy of his coming.

“It’s nothing, nothing!” she answered. “You—you—think me a great baby, sitting up here in the dark crying over a little disappointment,” and she brushed away the tears with a furtive hand.

But something in his deep glance made her feel that he had a silent sympathy for her grief.

“Poor little one! Yes, I know how you feel,” he said warmly. “But I have come to take you to the party. As soon as I joined them and found you were not there, I came away to bring you.”

“Oh, how good you are!” she cried gratefully, then thrilled with a guilty pang. She to call Francis Murray good! Was she turning traitor to that dear, loved mother who had sobbed beneath the blossoming lime-trees:

“Oh, my love, my love, how cruel Fate has been to us!”

He could not tell what she was thinking; he only heard her gracious words, and thrilled with a painful delight.

“I am fully repaid for coming now; so get ready, and I will be waiting for you down-stairs,” he said kindly, moving a little away and fighting down an impulse almost stronger than his will to catch the slender form in his arms and press the lovely, grieved face against his heart.

“Oh, I must not go. Your mother——” she began falteringly.

“Yes, I know; Alexie told me that my mother had taken a notion it was not prudent for you to go out. But take some wraps with you, and you’ll be all right. I will be fixing it up with my mother while you are dressing.”

He smiled at her—a smile so deep, so kind, it seemed to draw the heart from her breast. Then he turned away, and Italy closed the door and turned up the light—her brain whirling.

“What is this? What has come to me?” she whispered to herself, in a sort of rapturous terror. She sank on her knees and hid her burning face against the bed, whispering painfully:

“I—I—am getting to like him very much. I was so glad when he came, so glad that he thought of me, wished for me! And how strange that he should be kind to me, knowing what he does, suspecting what he does. He has a noble nature, to be so kind to me when he must despise me in his heart! But no, it was not hatred that looked out of his beautiful eyes. Does he ever look at Alys like that, I wonder? Ah, Heaven, what am I dreaming? I must not, must not go mad! For this is madness! Heaven help me, help me!”

She rose up and began to make her toilet for the moonlight party. Some reckless mood overcame her, a longing to look fair in the eyes of this man she ought to hate—to eclipse blue-eyed Alys, who had wished her not to come. She chose an exquisite dress—warm, yet elegant—a light-blue broadcloth embroidered in silver, and clasped at the throat by the pure fire of a twinkling diamond star. She pinned back her dark curls with a silver butterfly, with diamond eyes, and placed on her head a bewitching cap, all blue and silver. Then she smiled at herself in the mirror.

“This dress will be very pretty in the moonlight,” she said, and ran down to Mr. Murray.

He was waiting for her in the drawing-room—alone.

“Mother felt indisposed—so she has retired,” he said, not choosing to mention that there had been a scene, Mrs. Murray fighting bitterly for her own way, and—getting vanquished by her son’s calm determination.

He loved his mother, he yielded to her in many things, but while she argued there was one thing that haunted him—the grieving face of Italy, with its tearful eyes and quivering red lips, as it had appeared on the threshold of the dark room where she had been weeping alone.

“Poor little one, breaking her heart all alone without a friend,” he thought indignantly, and stood firm to his determination.

Nay, more, when she had retired in bitter anger he went out and gathered some flowers for Italy—fragrant white carnations—and gave them to her when she appeared, radiant in her beauty, but with her brilliant eyes a little misty still with the tears that she had shed.

“All ready?”—smiling.

“Oh, yes.”

“Come, then; the carriage is waiting.”

And he drew her hand through his arm and led her out.

The wheels seemed grinding Mrs. Murray’s heart as they crunched on the gravel, bearing her son away with the beautiful girl who had triumphed for this time over her foes.

A proud woman seldom forgives a defeat. Mrs. Murray had pitied and tolerated Italy before, but from this hour she hated her with resentful rancor.

“She has outwitted me, turned my son’s heart against me, and I will never forgive her—never!” she muttered. “And what will Mrs. Dunn say when she sees how the girl sets at naught my authority? She will think me weak as water. But I will show her, show her yet that though the girl is related to me, I will cast her off. She shall not disgrace the name of Murray by bearing it as my son’s wife!”

CHAPTER IX.

ITALY VALE’S SONG.

As the carriage rolled away along the level beach Francis Murray said amusedly:

“I think you will find the gayest party you ever encountered, Italy. There are about a dozen of them, and they have taken possession of the hull of an old wreck washed up last spring upon the beach. The girls have brought several varieties of musical instruments, and when I came away they were all singing a glee song with the whole strength of their lungs. At a little distance away it sounded quite sweet.”

“I should fancy so,” she answered, in that quiet way she always had with Francis Murray. Sitting there close by his side, she was thrilling with a strange sense of utter content and peace. She did not feel the least eagerness to reach the party. She knew too well that no one would give her a welcome, except Alexie and Ralph.

But the two miles were quickly passed over, and they saw at a little distance ahead in the starlight the old black hulk of the wrecked ship and light figures moving about it. Blent with the voice of the sea came the soft notes of a guitar, and Ralph Allen’s rich tenor voice singing very sweetly a little song of love and sorrow.

The pathetic last words were dying on the air as Francis Murray gave Italy his hand to assist her from the carriage. But why did both their hearts sink so strangely as he released the little fingers? Why did both sigh in unison? The melody with its sweet refrain had touched them with audible sadness.

Italy went toward the party a little timidly, as one uncertain of a welcome, but Alexie had an eager embrace ready.

“You darling, I’m so glad Mr. Murray brought you! Come, I’ve saved you a seat. Miss Vale, ladies and gentlemen—but I think you’re all acquainted. The same crowd we had on the yacht, dear. You’re just in time; the moon will soon be up. You have missed some lovely singing by not getting here a little sooner. Can’t we have it all over again?”

“No, no!” vociferated all the singers. “It is our turn now. Let Miss Vale give us a song.”

“Let her rest first,” Francis Murray said, in a voice of quiet authority. Then he went and stooped over Alys, where she was sulking a little apart.

“You will give us that pretty little recitation of yours—‘A Portrait’—will you not?”

He knew that Alys loved him, and he guessed at his mother’s hopes and plans. He was sorry for the fair, blue-eyed girl who had set her heart on him only to be disappointed.

Perhaps—if Italy had never come, with her voice like music and her dusky Oriental eyes—he might in time have grown fond of pretty Alys, and if he had never discovered what a petty, ignoble soul she had, he might have married her, but—now all was changed. His heart had proved traitor to his will. He could never feel for the pretty blonde anything deeper than pity.

Alys was furious because he had gone back for Italy. She had, indeed, now given up all hope of winning him, and considered dissimulation no longer necessary, so she tossed her golden head angrily, and curtly refused his request.

He turned away from her, and asked her aunt for that sweet little song she had composed herself, and the lady very willingly complied, though her voice was too weak and thin to do justice to her little ballad of love and jealousy.

She had written it at a moment when her fiery heart was consumed with pain over her lover’s attentions to a beautiful, dark-eyed coquette in New Orleans, and it was quite meritorious. She did not dream that Percy Seabright, who listened with such sympathetic eyes, had often given his convulsed friends a ridiculous parody of her style of rendering the song.

But Mr. Seabright, although very fond of directing his wit against other people, was quite vain himself, and responded cordially to the call upon himself for a recitation, giving one of some length, with good effect, albeit with rather theatrical style. Then he sat down, and the girls began to tell ghost-stories and startling dreams.

“Make them stop it—oh, do, they frighten me!” Italy whispered nervously to Alexie.

“Hush, girls, I don’t like to hear such things!” cried the lovely blonde, who looked like a piece of Dresden china, so fair, so fragile was her bright, blonde beauty.

Never were two girls more different at heart than Alys and Alexie, in spite of their being twins. They looked alike, but there was more soul in Alexie’s face, and her heart was noble and true, while Alys was selfish and unprincipled. Neither was there between the two girls the affection usual between twins. Alexie was always chaffing Alys, and Alys was always sneering at Alexie. They could not harmonize.

“A song from Miss Vale,” cried several voices, but she drew back unwillingly.

“Do not refuse them. Every one is expected to contribute to the amusements of the night,” cried Ralph Allen, putting the guitar-ribbon over her head. “Please give us that sweet thing you sang for Alexie and me the other night in the garden among the roses.”

Francis Murray turned quickly. He had never heard Italy sing. He did not know that there was a little song-bird pent up in that graceful white throat, and yet he fancied that with those wondrous eyes she could sing well.

He saw the lovely white hands fluttering over the guitar-strings.

A strain of exquisite melody mingled with the ocean tone, then Italy’s face turned upward to the stars, and she sang a love-song.

Not a sound from any one broke upon the divine sweetness of the night and the song, but every eye lingered in almost wonder upon the lovely young girl singing to the stars of love in a voice as sweet and clear as the nightingale’s.

The song died into silence, the white fingers fell from the strings. There was tumultuous applause.

“Miss Vale, you are a born prima donna,” Percy Seabright said gallantly, unheeding Mrs. Dunn’s envious frown.

The young men began to crowd about Italy. Her beauty and her genius had charmed them. They pleaded for another song; Francis Murray, like one waking from a dream, added his entreaties. She smiled dreamily and sang again.

“I want you, my darling, my darling!

I’m tired with care and with fret;

I’d nestle in silence beside you,

And all but your presence forget.

I call you, my darling, my darling!

My voice echoes back on the heart;

I stretch my arms to you in longing,

And, lo, they fall empty apart.

“I need you, my darling, my darling!
With its yearnings my very heart aches;
The load that divides us weighs harder,
I shrink from the jar that it makes.
Old sorrows rise up to beset me,
Old doubts make my spirit their own;
Oh, come through the darkness and save me,
For I am alone!”

It was a heart’s cry. The girl was thinking sadly of her loved and lost mother, but the listeners believed that she was singing to some lover over the dark-blue sea.

“That is sweet, but too sad, Miss Vale,” said one of her admirers. “Please give us a happier strain.”

And Percy Seabright chimed in vivaciously:

“She seems to agree with the poet:

“‘Each note recalls some withered leaf;

I’m saddest when I sing!’”

“Oh, see the moon!” cried Alexie suddenly, and they all started and turned to the sea, where the silver rim of the moon was just rising over the dark-purple line of water, building a silver bridge of resplendent beauty across the restless waves.

With cries of eager admiration they all scrambled out of the wreck and hastened down to the beach, where the rolling surf boomed in and kissed their feet, then receded with a hollow murmur.

Italy did not know how it happened, but she found Francis Murray by her side as she stood gazing delightedly at the full moon rising as if from a bed in the sea. In the silvery rays of light it seemed to her that his face was godlike in its manly beauty. She drew a long breath that was half-pain, half-pleasure, and exclaimed:

“Ah, if one could cross to the other shore on that silver bridge!”

“Are you home-sick?” he asked gently.

And she sighed:

“You know I have never really had a home. We were wanderers, mama and I. But yet I love the Old World, and, most of all, my birthplace, sunny Italy. I should like to be there to-night.”

“Would you like to have a moonlight sail? The wind is freshening nicely, and here is a little boat,” he said.

“Yes, I should like it,” she answered, and he helped her in, saying gaily:

“We will sail a little way on that bridge of moonlight.”

“Oh, how romantic!” cried several of the young people, as the white-sailed little dory skimmed lightly over the waves, right in the silver path of light, looking in the strange radiance like two glorified beings setting sail for Paradise.

“Come back soon. I want to take Alexie sailing!” called out Ralph Allen.

Alys Audenreid was close to her aunt’s side. She whispered vindictively:

“I hope they will both get drowned.”

“So do I,” was the instant reply, in a tone of sibilant hate and envy.

Then the little dory sailed away until it grew a mere speck on the water, and they ceased to watch it, the young people pairing off and walking up and down the sands.

“Let us go back to the wreck. I want to talk to you,” Mrs. Dunn said imperiously to her cavalier.

He gave her his arm, and they returned alone to the old hull and sat down side by side. Usually Percy Seabright was very gay and dashing in manner, and a great favorite with women for his courtliness, but at times he was a victim to the blues, and made himself a most unsocial companion to any one into whose company fate threw him.

One of these moods had suddenly overtaken the dashing bachelor to-night. He lounged at Mrs. Dunn’s side, in gloomy silence until she began to rally him upon his depression. He turned his strange, glittering eyes upon her smiling face, and said abruptly:

“Don’t jest with me, Ione. I am wretched. I can scarcely restrain myself from leaping into the sea and so ending the misery of my life!”

His look was wild, his voice tragic, but Mrs. Dunn did not know that the woman who wants to be charming to a man must fall in with his moods—“from grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

She pouted prettily.

“You pay a poor compliment to me, permitting yourself to be unhappy in my presence,” she exclaimed, dropping her chin into two jeweled hands that held a tiny lace handkerchief, and looking up at him with arch reproach.

But the coquetry was wasted on Percy Seabright. He sighed wearily, and looked away from her at the moonlit sea.

“Can’t you see that I am troubled, Ione?” he said fretfully. “You know I have these fitful moods and that nothing can charm me out of them.”

“But what is the cause of them, Percy?” she asked curiously.

He looked back at her, and answered restlessly:

“I will tell you what has caused these moods since I came back to The Lodge. It is the look of Ronald Vale in his daughter’s face.”

“Italy Vale—so she resembles her father? But what is that to you, Percy?”

“Everything, for it gives me the heartache. Ione, you know Ronald Vale was my dearest friend. I loved him with all the devotion of a boy’s warm heart. I have never known one happy hour since his tragic death, and that girl’s eyes—so dark, so glorious, so like her father’s—they break my heart.”

“Is that the reason you hate the girl so bitterly?” she asked, with veiled malice.

“Hate her?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, you hate her and wish her dead,” was the strange reply.

He started and gazed at her wildly, and she said significantly:

“Italy Vale spoke the truth the day she said that some enemy had pushed her into the water. I lied when I said that I saw Emmett Harlow do the dastardly deed. It was your arm, Percy, but—I love you, and I know how to shield those that I love.”

Even in the moonlight she could see his face whiten with awful terror. She laughed low and harshly.

“Do not be frightened. I am not going to betray you—that is, unless you play me false. A woman whose trust is betrayed is usually capable of doing anything for revenge,” she said. “But I am sure you will not give me any cause for anger. We will be married soon, you know, and I should have no cause to betray your crime.”

He stared blankly at her, and she heard his writhing lips repeat faintly:

“‘Soon’?”

She smiled at him with cool assurance.

“Yes,” she replied. “You know my niece, Alexie, is to be married in January. I have decided that you and I will be married at the same time.”

“Yes,” he replied, without remonstrance, but it piqued her that he received the communication without any sign of pleasure.

“We will go abroad on our bridal tour,” she continued. “You know it is the great hope of my life to visit Europe.”

“Yes,” he said again passively, as if she were making plans for another.

But suddenly his dark eyes beamed, and he cried feverishly:

“I have been abroad many times, but I remember my first trip with the keenest pleasure. Ronald Vale and I went together. We were chums—brothers. No woman had then come between us. It was the happiest time of my whole life.”

“Isn’t it really time for Italy and Mr. Murray to be getting back?” inquired Alexie, at length, as she and Ralph walked, arm in arm, upon the sands, happy lovers that they were.

He looked at his watch in the clear rays of the moonlight, and exclaimed:

“Positively, my darling, it is close upon midnight. I had no idea the time was going so fast.”

“A tribute to my charms—thank you,” replied his pretty sweetheart vivaciously. “But, really, they have been gone two hours, have they not?”

“It is nearer three hours. It was only nine o’clock when they started, and I’m sure they only meant it for a short sail. I hope nothing has happened them——” began Ralph anxiously. Then he stopped short and laughed. “Oh, what a joke! Feel the air, dear, how calm and still, almost sultry—not a breath of wind stirring. As sure as you live, they are becalmed, Alexie. There is not enough wind to fill their sail.”

Some others of the party came up just then, and they all agreed that Ralph’s idea was the correct one, and that there was no cause for anxiety.

“They are becalmed, and will have to wait for wind and tide, that is all,” said one vivacious young man; “but I am tremendously hungry, and don’t want to wait any longer for my lunch.”

Every one else was of the same mind; so, while they discuss their dainty midnight supper, let us take a bird’s-eye view of the wide waste of moonlit waters in search of the truants.

At first the dainty little dory sailed blithely before the freshening breeze, and the two occupants reveled in the beauty and sweetness of the summer night.

Francis Murray, as if tempted for once to show his latent powers, bent his energies to the task of entertaining his lovely companion.

He threw aside his usual air of hauteur, and showed himself brilliant, witty, and interesting, keeping through it all a dangerous softness of manner, an empressement that would have made the most finished coquette believe that he was about to throw himself at her feet and declare his love.

Italy was no coquette, however, and was not well versed in the signs of love, so she could by no means read her companion’s mood.

But she thought him kind, very kind, and she had a struggling consciousness that she had done wrong in coming. Yet she could not resist the charm of his manner. It inspired in her an irresistible joyousness. She, too, threw off the diffident manner that had dominated her in his presence until now, and replied to him freely and vivaciously. Her soft laugh, as it echoed over the rippling waves sounded to him like sweetest music.

Time flew fast, and suddenly he observed that the boat was going slower and slower, and the wind dying away.

“I could stay out here on this beautiful sea for hours with you, Italy, but yet I think we must be going back, or we shall have no wind,” he exclaimed, and turned about to return.

Slowly, more slowly than they knew, absorbed in their own thoughts, the dory moved through the small, crisp wavelets. The wind that had fanned their faces so joyously a little while ago lulled and stopped, the sail drooped dismally, they came to a dead pause out there in the open sea under the starry sky.

“Do not be frightened, Italy,” he said to her anxiously. “We are becalmed and must wait till the wind rises before we can get back to shore.”

Her face grew pale, and she asked:

“How long?”

“I cannot tell you, but I hope not long. The wind will be almost sure to rise at midnight, if not before, but it is more than an hour off yet. Can you be patient, and wait, or will you scold me for bringing you into such a predicament?”

“Is there any danger?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

“None, unless a heavy fog comes up. But it is very clear now. We are not more than two miles from shore. See, there is Great Head in the distance and the lights of Winthrop. You need not be alarmed. It is only a vexatious delay, and I will try to amuse you so that the time will go fast.”

“Thank you,” she said very low, and both were quite silent for a few moments. Italy was looking down at the rippling waves with a solemn face.

“Are you frightened, or are you angry?” her companion asked gently.

“I am neither,” she answered. “But I am suddenly sad. There came into my mind this moment a picture of my mother.”

“Your mother was a most unhappy woman,” he said half-inquiringly.

“Oh, Heaven, how unhappy!” sighed the girl; some impulse of confidence seized her, and while they waited there becalmed on the wide ocean, seemingly alone in the world, she told him something of the lonely life she had led, hounded through the world by a foe in ambush.

“Oh, Mr. Murray, tell me if you have any suspicion who that enemy could be?” she cried imploringly.

But he was honestly surprised and startled.

“I have not the least idea. I did not know your mother had an enemy in the world. I heard that she had placed you in a convent to be educated, and was living there herself in quiet comfort.”

“We were only two years at the convent. My mother’s health could not bear the sedentary life, and——” But suddenly she looked up and cried in a startled voice:

“Why, how strange! I cannot see Great Head and the lights of Winthrop now. It seems misty.”

“There is a fog, and it is growing quite thick, but I hope the wind will rise presently and blow it away,” he answered in a troubled tone.

He had been watching the creeping mist with startled eyes while she talked to him. It had stolen on them like a thief in the night. They could not see the sky nor the stars now, and scarcely each other’s faces for the insidious white fog.

Suddenly there came a sound that struck terror to their hearts.

“A steamer is approaching us!” cried Francis Murray wildly. He leaned forward and caught her cold little hand.

“Italy, my love, my darling, say that you forgive me for bringing you into this deadly peril, and let us pray God that we be not in the track of the coming horror!”

She could not answer. Her lips seemed frozen, but Francis Murray lifted up his voice and shrieked a warning to the steamer. Too late! She bore down swiftly upon them, cutting the little dory in twain.

CHAPTER X.

BORNE ON THE TIDE.

The gay party on shore discussed their warm coffee and elegant lunch with such keen appetites that the absentees were almost forgotten, until the increasing fog suddenly awoke a feeling of alarm in Ralph Allen’s breast.

“I wish now that they had not gone out sailing,” he said. “It is no joke to be becalmed in a fog. What if they should be run down by a steamer?”

Several members of the party began to express alarm, but Percy Seabright cried out boisterously:

“Do not let us borrow trouble. It is not likely that anything will happen to them. Indeed, I envy Francis his good luck in getting becalmed in a fog with such a pretty girl. What a chance for a flirtation! Ten to one they come back engaged, and this winter we will get cards to the wedding.”

He had quite recovered from his melancholy of a while ago, and was the life and soul of the party, singing songs and telling anecdotes to while away the long hours. The young people fell in with his infectious gaiety and took his bright view of the situation, all but Ralph and Alexie.

These two felt seriously uneasy over their friends, and from time to time went arm in arm down to the beach, watching to see the fog lift, or the air freshen and the tide come in, but the winds remained quiescent in their mysterious caves, and the fog hung like a white gauze veil over a still and glassy sea.

But no one else shared their anxiety. Percy Seabright and Mrs. Dunn were boisterously gay, and Alys Audenreid had a strange look in her eyes and a strange tone in her voice. She believed that the powers of evil had granted her wicked wish, and that Francis Murray and Italy were both drowned in the cruel sea. So hard and cruel had jealousy made her heart that she exulted secretly in the belief. She would much sooner have seen him dead than happy with her rival—beautiful, dark-eyed Italy Vale.

In her blind fury of jealous rage, Alys wanted the world to end for those two who had made her so unhappy. She had grown hopeless of supplanting Italy in Francis Murray’s heart.

Francis Murray had never shown Alys one sign of love, but she chose to consider herself wronged and deserted, and exulted in the speedy ending of those two lives. What a cruel thing is the jealousy of an ignoble mind—strong as death and cruel as the grave!

It was almost two hours past midnight when Ralph Allen uttered a cry of the keenest joy:

“The wind is rising, the fog lifting!”

He and Alexie ran down to the beach again. The sea was ruffled with little white-capped wavelets, and the tide began to roll in upon the shore with a wailing voice. The wind was high and the fog was rolling away. They stretched their eyes over the wide expanse of water, hoping to see the little dory riding in with the tide. Ah, joy! There it came, far away as yet; but no—what was it tossing on the waves like a sail?

Ralph Allen gave a loud shout, and the whole party ran down to him. They did not have to wait and watch long. Directly the strong tide brought in and cast at their feet the broken sail of the dory, with a half-unconscious girl clinging despairingly to the rope!

Washed ashore on a broken sail that clung to some fragments of a shattered boat—oh, what an eloquent story was told in that occurrence! All of Ralph’s forebodings were dismally realized. He knew that the worst had happened, that the dory had been run into and destroyed by some monster steamer—but—where was Francis Murray?

The wailing wind and the moaning sea gave no reply, and Italy’s lips were silent, too. Only a faint pulse at her heart gave signs of life.

It was well that there was a physician with the party, and that warm coffee and wine were at hand. Everything necessary was quickly done, and then she was taken back to The Lodge breathing faintly but looking like a dead girl and quite unable to speak. They did not stay to see the sun rise, but disbanded mournfully—mourning Francis Murray as dead, and dreading lest Italy’s life should also be offered up as a sacrifice to the pitiless sea.

Only Percy Seabright said hilariously:

“It is evident that Miss Vale was not born to be drowned. She has had two hairbreadth escapes from the sea, and the Fates that pursue her had better change their tactics if they wish for success.”

Mrs. Dunn and Alys said nothing, but they wished in their hearts that Italy had perished and Francis Murray escaped. Then they might have woven anew their spider’s web to ensnare a good man’s heart.

Too late! Too late! There could scarcely be one hope that he had survived, for the next day, when Italy was able to speak, she told feebly the story of their accident, how the dory had been cleft in twain by the steamer, and that she had been swept instantly away and never heard his voice again.

The day succeeding was the first of September, when the house-party was to break up. Mrs. Dunn and her favorite niece, Alys, took leave with silky purrings of sympathy for the bereaved hostess, but Alexie begged frankly to stay and nurse the sick girl, who was too weak yet to leave her bed.

Mrs. Murray was glad to have her stay, glad for some one else to watch over Italy, whom she hated now with more virulence than ever.

“Through this girl I have lost my son, and I will never willingly look upon her face again. When she gets well, either she or I must leave The Lodge,” she avowed before them all.

Mrs. Dunn and Alys vowed that she was right, Percy Seabright said nothing, but Ralph and Alexie looked shocked and indignant.

“But, dear Mrs. Murray, the accident was not Italy’s fault,” cried the warm-hearted girl.

But Mrs. Murray’s terrible bereavement had but hardened her cold heart.

“The girl disobeyed me in going with Francis that night. Had she remained at home, as I bade her, he would now be alive and well. No, I will never forgive Italy Vale for my son’s tragic death, and as soon as she recovers I shall ask her to make her home elsewhere.”

Alexie looked pleadingly at her aunt.

“May I ask her to become our guest this winter?” she murmured.

“Decidedly not. Mrs. Murray’s cause is mine, and I fully endorse her course,” was the brusk reply.

The quick tears came into Alexie’s sweet blue eyes as she turned them on Ralph. He whispered tenderly:

“When we are married you shall have our friend for your guest as long as you like. In the meantime I will see if we cannot find a pleasant home for her as soon as she is able to leave The Lodge.”

He went away with the rest that day, but Alexie knew that he would return on the morrow, for all the sunshine of Ralph Allen’s life lay in those sweet, blue eyes of his fair, betrothed bride, and for them the course of true love had always run smooth.

CHAPTER XI.

WITHOUT A HOME.

Overwhelmed with grief and horror at her son’s fate, Mrs. Murray held firmly to her resolve not to see Italy again. She regarded the hapless girl as a murderess. In vain did Alexie try to assuage her keen despair by pointing out to her that there was no certainty of her son’s death, but that he might possibly have been saved by the very steamer that had destroyed the little dory and set Italy adrift upon the wide sea.

“Dear Mrs. Murray, he was such a splendid swimmer, it is not probable he could have perished in so calm a sea,” she cried.

“Why, then, does he not return to me?” cried the anguished mother; and she added:

“It is three days ago now, and if he had been saved he would surely have come back ere now. No, no, he must have been killed by the stroke that cut the little boat in twain.”

It seemed so plausible that this was true that Alexie could not think of any more words of comfort. She had to leave the bereaved woman to her terrible despair.

But strangely enough, Italy Vale would not believe that Francis Murray was dead.

“Something tells me that he escaped—that he is alive somewhere in the world to-day, and that he will return,” she cried, her eyes beaming, a faint color staining the ivory pallor of her delicate cheek.

It was the fifth day after the moonlight party, and Italy was sitting up for the first time in an easy chair, wrapped in a loose, furred dressing-gown and warm slippers, for the day was chilly.

A storm had raged the night before, and the sea was high and rough, and a chilly wind was whistling along the New England coast, while heaps of drift lay along the sands that were dotted with screaming sea-gulls and sand-pipers.

Sweet Alexie Audenreid had been talking to the lonely girl with all the tenderness of a sister, telling her the truth that could be withheld no longer, but softening its harshness all that she could by her own expressions of affection.

But when she had ended she looked away from the keen pain in the dark eyes as Italy realized that she was an object of dislike to Mrs. Murray, an unwelcome guest whose departure was eagerly wished for—that she was homeless. She could not speak for some moments for the keen hurting in her throat, and the wonder in her mind.

Mrs. Murray had been kind to her when she first came to Winthrop. What had changed her so as the weeks went past? What had made her so bitterly unkind and cruel? As she thought it over, a dimpled white hand clasped hers tenderly, and sweet Alexie whispered:

“Do not mind this hard-hearted old woman, dear. I love you and so does Ralph, and when we are married we want you to be our guest for as long as you will stay. And in the meantime we have a plan to propose to you.”

The pathetic dark eyes turned on her in grateful wonder.

Alexie continued tenderly:

“You will wish to leave here as soon as you can. Do you know where you will go?”

“I—I—have not decided yet,” Italy gasped.

“Then I think Ralph’s plan is a good one. You see, he is boarding with a nice, quiet old lady in Boston while his folks are abroad. This old lady is quite a lady indeed, but in reduced circumstances, and takes a few boarders to eke out a genteel support. The family is small, herself and a daughter lately widowed. She has Ralph and a few other boarders, all good people. It is quite near us, too, which is another reason why I want you to go and board with this old lady, for then I could come and see you so often, dear.”

“You are a darling to plan everything for me like this. I will go to the old lady, and a thousand thanks to you,” Italy sobbed gratefully.

Italy’s two devoted friends removed her the next day from The Lodge to her pleasant new home in Boston.

Mrs. Murray remained cold and unrelenting to the last, and returned no reply to the brief note of thanks and farewell that Italy sent to her by her maid. She stayed closely shut in her own room until Italy had left the house, and heard with vindictive pleasure the crunching of the carriage wheels that bore her away.

And yet Mrs. Murray was not a mean or unprincipled woman. She had only been led astray by blind prejudice and the evil counsels of interested friends. She knew in her heart that Italy Vale was beautiful, pure, and good, and in consenting to receive her into the household at The Lodge she had put aside selfish prejudice and acted from a high sense of womanly duty combined with pity.

But her pride and prejudice had both taken serious alarm as she noted the interest that her son was taking in his protégée. This alarm skilfully fostered by the scheming Mrs. Dunn and her crafty niece, Alys, had developed into actual dislike and jealousy of the hapless orphan girl.

But as she listened to the grinding carriage wheels and exulted in Italy’s departure, the still, small voice of conscience was murmuring in her breast, although she tried to drown it. She knew that Italy was not to blame for Francis Murray’s death, if he were really dead, and she knew that if he returned he would censure her course in turning adrift on the world the lonely orphan who but a month ago had come to Winthrop pleading for a mother’s love to replace that which she had lost.

Alas! the world is but a cold, bleak place to a friendless orphan girl, and those who should love her most often goad her to despair by harshness or indifference. Mrs. Murray’s heart had shut itself against poor Italy, and she resolutely stifled the accusing voice of her sensitive conscience. But in Italy’s heart there was no resentment for Mrs. Murray’s course. Her heart was full of pain and sympathy for the sadly bereaved mother.

“Oh, that I might imbue her with some of my sanguine faith that Mr. Murray is not dead, and that he will yet return!” she exclaimed often, yet as weeks went on with no tidings she, too, began to lose heart of hope.

It was far into October now, and the autumn leaves were turning from red and gold to russet-brown and whirling through the chilly air; the nuts were ripe in the woods, and in the city streets people began to appear in warm clothing and furs; and Italy remembered that it was in the waning days of the bright summer that she had gone on that fatal little sailing trip with Francis Murray—far back in the last of summer since she had heard his voice, full of love and yearning, calling her “love,” “darling,” then fading out into the silence of a terrible mystery.

She awoke one stormy midnight, weeping, from a dreadful nightmare dream in which she had seen Francis Murray lying dead and cold upon the beach at Winthrop. It was storming wildly outdoors, and the noise had seemed to her, in her sleep, like the rush of waves that threw that pallid, drowned corpse at her feet.

Italy flung herself, in her dream, upon the cold, dead form and kissed the glorious face that she had never kissed in life—kissed the closed eyes, the marble-white brow, the cold, stiff lips that had called her in that last, supreme moment, “love,” “darling.”

“Oh, I love you, I love you!” she cried out to the dead, and then she awoke, weeping wildly.

She heard the wild rain swirling against the windows, and the gale shrieking around the corners of the streets. In the darkness she groped her way to the window and looked through the curtains into the street. By the white electric lights she saw the swirling sheets of rain go dashing past, swept by the cyclonic force of the wind, and the branches of the leafless trees bending and writhing and snapping off as though in the embrace of a gigantic monster. With a shudder she dropped the curtains together and crouched miserably upon the floor, her face in her hands.

“Oh, how dreadful it is, how dreadful—yet not so terrible as my dream!” she moaned. “Oh, is he dead, dead, and lost forever? Or did I wrong him with my wild suspicions? Was he noble and true, as he seemed? Who, then, was the fiend that murdered my father? Not Francis Murray, ah, no, no, no! Let me do him justice, now that he is dead. He was not the fiend I came here to find. He was noble, godlike, and I—loved him. Yes, I loved him from the first hour we met. I realize it now, in the darkness of my great despair.”

She thought of the bereaved mother, alone and lonely in the splendid home at Winthrop, and her heart yearned over her.

“God pity her, God comfort her!” she sobbed. “Ah, no wonder she execrates me! Through me she lost her noble son. Why did I ever come under her roof, and bring with me the doom of that tragedy? What have I accomplished? Nothing—less than nothing. I have wronged a true heart by a monstrous doubt, and through me he came to his death. And I am just as far as ever from keeping my vow to clear my mother from that dark cloud of shame! Oh, my dearest one, how could I ever meet you again, even in heaven, if I had broken faith with you! No, no, I cannot go to you, my vow binds me here!”

CHAPTER XII.

THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WIDOW.

As Italy crouched there, weeping in wild abandon, she heard a door open, lower down the hall, then footsteps coming along, accompanied by the crying of an infant.

The footsteps stopped at her door, there was a light rap, then a woman’s voice said deprecatingly:

“I beg pardon, Miss Vale, but I heard you up. May I speak to you?”

“One moment,” answered Italy. She hurriedly lighted her gas, threw on her dressing-gown, and opened the door to Mrs. Mays, her landlady, who entered with the crying infant in her arms.

“My dear, I beg a hundred pardons, but my daughter is taken suddenly very ill with convulsions, and there is not another lady in the house that I can appeal to for help. The nurse left to-day, and the baby cannot stay in bed with its sick mother. It is crying from loneliness and cold. Will you, my dear, let it lie in bed with you to-night while I attend to my daughter?”

“Certainly,” Italy answered, taking the screaming bundle of flannel and lace rather gingerly into her arms, “but, dear me, Mrs. Mays, how can I stop its crying?”

“It will stop itself as soon as you get into bed, and let it snuggle up close on your arm and get warm. You see, it has been used to sleeping with its mother and in the dark, but her restless tossings and the light in her room keep it awake and sick. Do the best you can with it, my dear, and God bless you!” cried Mrs. Mays, hurrying from the room, while Italy locked the door, lowered the light, and crept into bed with her wee charge that, sure enough, as soon as it became conscious of the warmth and the darkness, cuddled close within her warm arm and fell asleep.

“Poor little girlie,” murmured Italy, with that rush of tenderness every womanly heart feels for helpless infancy.

But the chances are that had Italy guessed whose child lay on her arm she would have recoiled from it with something near akin to loathing.

Italy had been an inmate of this pleasant boarding-house almost two months, but she had never seen Mrs. Mays’ widowed daughter nor heard her name, although she knew that she was very young, and had been suddenly widowed in barely a year after marriage.

For two months she had been ill, and since the birth of her child, six weeks before, her life had been almost despaired of. But in the last few days she had shown signs of rapid improvement, and the sick-nurse, having another engagement, had left the invalid to her mother’s care.

It was most sad to think of the hapless young mother widowed so suddenly before her child was born, and Italy’s heart swelled with grief and pity for the fatherless babe.

In the pretty parlor down-stairs was a lovely crayon of a young girl with dark hair and eyes, and a wilful, pouting mouth, and Mrs. Mays had told her one day that it was her daughter Isabel.

“Taken when she was at boarding-school just a few weeks before she ran off to marry a dissipated scamp. Yes, he was a scamp, Miss Vale, or he would have asked my consent, and not carried her off in that fashion, almost breaking my heart, for Isabel was my only daughter, and I loved her better than life. But perhaps he knew I would refuse, for though he was handsome and had a little money, he had a bad reputation as a fast man, and I would not have let my child marry him for wealth untold. But she married him without my consent, and I never forgave her till after his death, when she came home to me broken-hearted.”

The little babe slept sweetly, the storm muttered on outside, and Italy, too much disturbed to sleep, lay among the pillows thinking, thinking, till her brain seemed to burn.

She was glad that she could at last believe Francis Murray innocent of the sin of which she suspected him. Her heart had rejected the belief all the while, and now reason came to her aid. It could not be true. She had been mad to cling to that ignoble suspicion, after she had seen and known him in all the quiet nobility of his daily life.

“I wronged that grand soul, and may Heaven forgive me!” she sobbed.

A new plan had been forming in her mind for days, and she suddenly resolved to carry it out.

Lawyer Gardner had been back in Boston some time, but as she was comfortably situated with Mrs. Mays, she had never opened communication with him, fearing his disapproval of the object that had brought her to America. But now rendered desperate by failure and hopelessness, Italy resolved to seek his sympathy and advice.

“I will go to him this day,” she resolved firmly.

A little after daylight Mrs. Mays came for the child.

“Isabel is better, much better,” she said. “To tell you the truth, Miss Vale, it was partly hysteria that ailed her. She got to weeping over her dead husband, and then there was no controlling her nerves until the violence of her grief wore out her strength. She is calmer now, and begging for the baby. Thank you for keeping it so long for me.”

She went away with the sleeping babe, and then Italy fell into a long sleep that lasted until she was aroused by the breakfast-bell.

She rose and made a careful street toilet.

“The sun is shining after the storm—a happy omen,” she said; “I will go to Mr. Gardner after breakfast.”

She went down and had her morning meal with Ralph Allen and the only other boarder, a grim professor of Greek, who hurried out as soon as he had bolted his meal.

Ralph lingered for a few moments’ chat with her before he strolled off to his studio. He was a rising young artist.

“I saw Alexie yesterday, and promised her for you that all three of us would go to the theater this evening. Was I impertinent?” he queried brightly.

“Not at all. I shall be very glad,” she replied smilingly; for Ralph seemed like a brother to her, he was so genial and kind. She was going up-stairs for her hat and jacket when she met Mrs. Mays coming down.

“Miss Vale, you have been so kind. Will you do me another favor?” she inquired deprecatingly, and as Italy gazed at her inquiringly she added:

“Will you come in and see Isabel a few moments. She is so grateful for your kindness last night, and wants to thank you herself.”

“It was nothing——” Italy began, but she followed Mrs. Mays along the hall to her daughter’s room.

The invalid was lying in bed propped up in pillows, with the dimpled little baby held to her breast with one arm. A warm shawl of rose-colored cashmere was draped about her shoulders, and above it shone a face of wondrous beauty, dark in the eyes and hair, arch in the features, but ghastly pale and wasted now, with big eyes, too solemn and somber for her age, that could not have exceeded nineteen at the most.

Mrs. Mays led Italy to the side of the bed.

“My dear, I’ve brought her, the sweet girl that took care of baby last night, so that you could thank her for her goodness to us. Miss Vale, my daughter, Mrs. Severn.”

Italy bowed, muttered some almost inaudible words, then sank helplessly into a chair by the bedside, her brain whirling.

Severn! Severn! That name had struck her like a blow! She recalled what she had read in the papers about the beautiful young wife of Craig Severn who was nearly crazed by his tragic end! Could this be Craig Severn’s widow?

“Miss Vale, are you ill? You have grown very pale,” cried Mrs. Mays.

“No, no, it is nothing serious—just a dizziness! I am all right now,” gasped Italy, lifting her head quickly, then she looked at Mrs. Severn.

“I am glad that you are better. I hope you will soon be well,” she said.

“I don’t want to get well—I want to die!” was the answer, in a voice of passionate despair.

“Isabel!” cried her mother remonstratingly, but the unhappy creature looked at Italy, exclaiming:

“You don’t blame me, do you? Oh, Miss Vale, you know my sad story, of course. I had the dearest husband in the world, and he was murdered—foully murdered—before we had been married a year. What is there left for me to live for now?”

“The baby,” Italy said falteringly.

“Yes, yes, my little treasure!” cried the poor young mother, pressing the infant to her breast. Then her dark eyes gleamed. “Yes, I must live, live to hunt down Craig’s murderer and bring him to justice!”

Italy’s eyes had been wandering helplessly around the room. Suddenly they stopped at a portrait on an easel. Her frame seemed to grow rigid.

“It is the face of that monster—and I have lived two months under the same roof with his widow—the woman he was false to—yet who mourns him so truly,” she thought shudderingly.

Again Mrs. Mays interposed anxiously:

“Isabel, dear, do not talk so wildly! You frighten Miss Vale with your talk of bringing murderers to justice.”

“Mama, go away and leave us, please, I want to ask Miss Vale to help me name baby. You know she has never had a name yet,” the sick girl answered more calmly, and with a wan smile.

Mrs. Mays, mindful of pressing household duties, retired, and then Mrs. Severn resumed eagerly:

“Mama does not care anything about poor Craig because she hates him and believed slanders about him; but they were not true, Miss Vale, indeed they were not true. He loved me devotedly, and I worshiped him. Yes, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice.”

A faint film seemed to pass before Italy’s eyes. The room seemed to fade, and in its place gleamed a window-pane shattered by a bullet. Behind it shone the white face and lifted, writhing hands of the murderess! She was back in fancy with that fatal night, struggling with the villain who had lured her to that house where he met his sudden death.

“Miss Vale,” began Mrs. Severn, and Italy came back to the present with a dreadful start, and looked into the big, solemn black eyes opposite. Their owner was saying:

“I have the greatest faith that I shall succeed, for already I have one important clue. You see, my husband was never seen alive after he left Mr. Gardner’s law-office on the evening of the eighteenth of August. But there was a woman mixed up in the mystery, somehow. Mr. Gardner’s office-boy has told me that a beautiful young girl went into the office just before closing-time, and that my husband took her away afterward in a cab. The boy says that he would know the girl’s beautiful face again anywhere. He is watching for that face and will let me know when he sees it again.”

CHAPTER XIII.

NAMING THE BABY.

Italy Vale sat looking at the beautiful, excited young widow with a white face of utter consternation. The words that she had spoken seemed to burn themselves in on her brain in letters of fire.

“The boy says that he would know that beautiful face anywhere, and he is watching for it, and will let me know if he sees it again.”

It seemed to Italy as if she were walking over a powder-mine that might at any moment explode beneath her feet. Yet she knew that she was not guilty of Craig Severn’s death.

She knew who was, for the wild white face was indelibly printed on her memory, and often, when she had seen it—proud, gay, smiling—she had wondered how Mrs. Dunn could smile with that terrible deed upon her soul.

And yet she did not wish to betray the guilty woman, for, no matter how she had come to be peeping in through the window, Italy believed that the fatal shot had been fired to protect herself from a villain’s power, and she had kept silent from blended feelings of gratitude and honor.

Yet she had often wondered at the apparent unconsciousness of Mrs. Dunn upon the subject, wondered the more because she knew herself to be an object of dislike to her, and therefore thought it strange that she had cared enough to protect her from the stranger’s insults by the perpetration of a crime.

But the real facts were quite different from what Italy imagined, and Mrs. Dunn was ignorant both of the name of the man she had slain and of the girl whose honor she had defended.

She was a woman of strong passions and the fiercest jealousy, and while vainly awaiting the coming of her laggard lover at Winthrop, had conceived the idea that he was entertaining guests at his suburban home a few miles from Boston. Curiosity and resentment had led her upon a secret mission of discovery to the house, and at the moment when Craig Severn had stooped to embrace the struggling Italy, Mrs. Dunn had just arrived and become a witness of the scene.

Severn’s back was toward her, and in the dim light he looked so exactly like Percy Seabright, that she had no doubt of his identity with her lover. The girl she did not recognize; but, believing that she must be both young and beautiful, she was seized with an impulse of such murderous hate, that, pressing her pistol against the window-pane, she fired pointblank at her rival.

What was her horror when she saw the man fall dead in a pool of his spouting life-blood, and the girl she hated with such murderous fury standing erect, terrified, but entirely unharmed?

With a wild cry of horror and despair, she threw up her white hands, from which the instrument of death had fallen unheeded, and a minute later fled from the scene as though pursued by avenging furies, believing that she had slain her lover.

Accordingly, when Percy Seabright came to Winthrop the next day, she fell fainting at his feet, believing for an instant that his wraith had appeared to haunt her for her sin. But later on the truth came home to her. She had made a mistake. It was not her lover she had killed, but another man, an entire stranger. She wondered whom it could be; but she kept her own counsel, and though she read in the papers of the finding of Craig Severn’s murdered body in the river, she did not by any means associate the fact with her own sin.

In an impulse of mad, unreasoning jealousy she had committed a terrible deed, but the name of her victim and of the girl from whom she saved him remained a sealed mystery to her—but a mystery that haunted her, for often in her dreams she lived over those dreadful moments and the night of horror in which she believed that she had killed Percy Seabright, and she would awaken with her face bathed in a cold dew of anguish. But all the time she believed that her dread secret was known to God alone—to God and her own self.

Little did she dream that her life lay in the slender white hands of the girl she hated, but who, knowing herself thus hated and persecuted, was too generous to betray her foe.

So Italy, knowing all the fatal truth, was suddenly confronted with the startling fact that a Nemesis was on the track of Craig Severn’s slayer—a Nemesis in the shape of the beautiful young widow, who held it as a holy mission to bring the criminal to justice and avenge his death. She was startled, unnerved, utterly confounded by the suddenness of the knowledge.

She felt that if she stayed there another moment with Craig Severn’s portrait staring at her from the easel, and his broken-hearted widow whispering to her of the clue she had found, she would have to scream out aloud in her distress. She rose up abruptly, her lovely young face as white as it would ever be in its coffin.

“I—I must go. Pray excuse me, madam,” she faltered, and hurried to her own room as fast as her trembling limbs would permit.

Then she fell upon the bed and lay for some time unconscious. She came back to herself presently with a long, shuddering sigh, and remembered everything.

“I was going to Mr. Gardner’s office, but—I must not now, for that terrible boy would see me and know me,” she thought, and she suddenly realized that it was almost providential—that interview with Mrs. Severn.

“For if she had not sent for me I should have gone on to the law-office, and blundered straight upon that terrible boy that is watching for my face,” she thought.

It seemed to Italy as if the tables had been turned with a vengeance. Hitherto she had been trying to hunt down a murderer and bring him to justice. Now she was being hunted down herself. The sensation was not agreeable. At the end of her cogitations she decided:

“Self-preservation is the first law of nature. If the worst comes to the worst, and I am accused of Craig Severn’s murder, I shall have to denounce Mrs. Dunn for her crime.”

Then she began to wonder what Mrs. Severn would think of her wild exit from the room.

“Perhaps she will suspect me of being the very girl she is after. I must go and make some excuse,” she thought.

She bit her lips and rubbed her face to bring back some of the vanished color, then she stopped a minute to pet her canary that was chirping forlornly in his gilded cage.

“Darling little Frankie, I will lay it all on you,” she cooed sweetly.

She closed the door, and hastened back to the invalid’s room. The young widow lay back among the pillows, her eyes closed and the dew of tears glittering on the dark fringe of her lashes.

“Dear Mrs. Severn,” cried Italy, and the invalid looked at her with a wan smile, “I have come back to apologize for my ridiculous haste in leaving. I have a canary, you know, I was not certain that I had closed my door tightly, and I feared the cat might get him.”

“Ah, I thought you had a frightened look!” cried Mrs. Severn. “But I hope you found your little pet safe.”

“Yes, quite safe, thank you.”

“Then sit down again, won’t you, for I was in earnest when I told mama that I wanted you to help me select a name for my baby. I have been so ill and unhappy since she came, I could not choose her name. Won’t you suggest something?”

Italy was so glad that she did not recur to the subject of her husband’s murder that she very willingly consented to this request, and a half-hour was spent by the two new friends in suggesting and weighing the merits of respective names.

“Let it be Mabel,” Mrs. Severn said at last, and then burst into tears. “Oh, to think of Craig being dead, and never seeing and knowing baby,” she sobbed.

Mrs. Mays entered at that moment, and while she was comforting the mourner, Italy made her escape to her own room.

“What shall I do now?” she wondered; “I cannot go to Mr. Gardner as I wished, and I cannot decide whether it is best for me to send for him to come to me and confide in him or not. I will wait until to-morrow before I make up my mind.”

A servant tapped at the door and handed in the morning’s mail, a letter with a foreign postmark. Italy saw that it was in the writing of her young lover, Emmett Harlow. He had been abroad two months now, and absorbed in her recent troubles, she had scarcely thought of him for weeks, but the exquisite poem that dropped out of the envelope when she opened it proved that Emmett had by no means forgotten the fair girl who had rejected his love.

The verses closed without signature, but Italy knew the firm, bold hand too well to doubt who had sent this tender token from across the sea to hint of his unchanged devotion. She sighed as she thought of the warm, true heart whose love she could not return.

Not for one moment did Italy believe Mrs. Dunn’s accusation against Emmett. She thought the lady was mistaken, and that, after all, the whole affair had been an accident. Francis Murray had done all that he could to foster this belief in her mind.

It seemed to him impossible that this young and innocent girl could have a murderous enemy, and he was acting in blind faith when he assured Italy of this belief.

CHAPTER XIV.

PERCY SEABRIGHT’S ADVICE.

While she was musing, with gentle regret, over her absent friend, Emmett, the little bell-boy reappeared with a card that bore the name: “Percy Seabright.”

Mr. Seabright had been absent from Boston nearly six weeks, visiting a brother out West, he said, and Italy had not thought of him during his absence. The episode of that day at Winthrop when she had asked him, as her father’s dearest friend, to help her trace her father’s murderer, had almost passed from her mind, in the stress of later hurrying events. But everything rushed back upon her now, and she descended in eager haste to meet and welcome the caller.

Fresh, bright, debonair as the morning, he took her hand, exclaiming:

“It is a great pleasure to meet you again, my little friend.”

His beaming smile, his friendly voice went like a ray of sunshine to Italy’s sore heart.

“I only returned yesterday, and called on Mrs. Dunn last evening, of course,” he went on, in his blithe fashion, his bright eyes searching hers almost tenderly. “I saw Alexie, and she told me where to find you, so I came at the earliest permissible hour this morning. Have you forgotten our compact of friendship, little one?”

She smiled in answer, and he chattered on:

“You have thought hardly of me, perhaps, for appearing to neglect the earnest request you made of me the day we went yachting. Well, there were reasons—and I came here to-day to explain them. And I brought these as peace-offerings.”

The peace-offerings were a new novel by a fashionable author, and an exquisite bunch of hothouse flowers.

“Alexie told me you were going to the theater to-night, so I thought the flowers would be very welcome.”

“They are. Thank you very much for remembering me,” she answered gratefully.

She was so lonely, poor child! and kindness went straight to her sad heart.

His keen eyes were regarding her expressive face intently.

“You don’t look happy,” he said tenderly. “Never mind, I will try to cheer you up, now that I am back in Boston. So you are intimate with the Audenreids, eh?”

“Only with Alexie. Alys and her aunt seem to dislike me.”

“Jealous of you,” he commented gaily. “Ever been to their house, Miss Vale? Ever seen Mrs. Dunn’s mother?”

“No,” she answered.

“Well, you ought to. ‘Ma,’ as Mrs. Dunn calls her, is such an oddity she would amuse you, only they keep her so carefully in the background. Give you my word, I was engaged to Ione before she ever permitted me to see her ma. Kind old soul, but ridiculous—very. Shoddy in the extreme. Parlor hung round with glaring, cheap chromos.”

There rushed over Italy the words Emmett Harlow had said to her:

“Percy Seabright is not true nor sincere. He makes fun of everything about Mrs. Dunn, yet pretends to be her friend, even her lover.”

The smile froze on her sweet lips, and her glance grew severe.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Seabright,” she exclaimed, “but I do not like to hear you ridicule Mrs. Dunn in that fashion. It is not fair. She is your fiancée, is she not?”

“It is nothing but a flirtation, I assure you, Miss Vale. I am not a marrying man. I like my liberty too well. But I have offended you by my levity. I am sorry.”

Her fair face was still very grave.

“I have no right to lecture you,” she said, “and yet, since you were my father’s friend and mine, I will speak out. Your levity grieves me, makes me distrustful of your sincerity. For since you can speak so lightly of the woman you profess to love, how can I trust to your friendship? Perhaps you will go back to her this evening and hold me up to her idle laughter.”

“Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Miss Vale, will you believe that I gave vent to all that nonsense just because I wanted to brighten that grave little face with some laughter and dimples? But I have offended you instead. I will go.”

But he did not move to do so. He sat still, fixing his bright, dark eyes on hers with a gaze so strange and intent that it made her shiver, although she could not take her eyes away. Gradually a hard, cold gleam crept into his bright gaze. It was a serpent charming a bird.

Suddenly Italy seemed to realize that he was trying to dominate her mind by a subtle will-power of his own. With an effort she turned aside her head, avoiding that baleful gaze.

Percy Seabright gave a low, strange laugh.

“So you will not forgive me?” he said regretfully; “and yet you have no call to take Mrs. Dunn’s part; she has always openly hated you.”

“And for that reason I can but pity her more. Her ignoble nature can but evoke the pity of a nobler mind,” Italy answered gravely, then continued: “If you wish me really for your friend, you must give over these witticisms at the expense of your friends. They pain me, they turn my heart cold with distrust of your professions.”

It was true. At that moment her heart felt a strange recoil against the man whom she wished to like for her dead father’s sake.

Perhaps Emmett Harlow’s warning was working in her mind; perhaps it was the strange expression with which he looked at her, a sneering smile and a strong uplifting of the black, arched brows that gave him a startling resemblance to Mephistopheles in “Faust,” completely transforming the usual sweet, winning expression into something positively uncanny.

“Oh, don’t look like that!” she cried, lifting her hand with a gesture of strong repulsion. “I—am—afraid—of—you.”

Percy Seabright threw back his head and laughed convulsively.

“What do you mean, Miss Vale, you amusing little girl? How did I look?”

“This way——” she replied frankly, and quoted the lines:

“‘There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of hate and fear;
And where his glance of hatred darkly fell,

Hope writhing fled, and mercy sighed farewell.’”

Again he laughed convulsively, but her grave expression presently restored his composure.

“Thanks for your compliment. You are very candid, I am sure,” he replied gaily. “You tempt me to go upon the stage. I might get an engagement in ‘Faust.’”

“Yes, if you could act the part as well as you looked it just now,” she replied spiritedly.

Suddenly Percy Seabright’s smile faded, and he assumed a repentant air.

“A truce to jesting,” he exclaimed. “My little friend, you are rather hard on me, I think. I assure you that ridicule of each other is current coin in society, and that it holds no real malice, only simple pleasantry. Mrs. Dunn, whose part you so nobly take, doubtless makes fun of me to her intimates, and I am positively certain that her ma detests me. So let us forget this little episode, and permit me to remind you that your noble father loved and trusted me to the hour of his death, so that you ought to consider his judgment equal to your own.”

It was his trump-card, and he played it skilfully. The cold lines of her lovely face softened insensibly, and he looked up with a flickering smile.

“If I have been too harsh you must pardon me,” she said. “I am but little versed in the ways of society. My mother’s gentle teachings and my own instincts are the only guides I have had to what is right and just.”

At the mention of her mother’s name he turned aside his head to hide a frown of sullen anger, and did not look back at her until he had summoned an artificial smile.

“I am sure that these guides have been the most correct ones, Miss Vale; better, far better than the hollow teachings of society,” he exclaimed. “In future I will try to restrain those faults that arise only from a thoughtless levity, not from a vicious mind, and perhaps I may better deserve the boon of your sweet friendship.”

With a graceful gesture he lifted her small hand and pressed his lips upon it, then let it fall, with a deep sigh. He was, in fact, dropping suddenly, as was his wont, from levity into a mood of profound melancholy.

Italy took it for sincere repentance, and softened toward him more and more. Somewhat embarrassed by remembering the impulsive lecture she had given him, she dropped her eyes to the pages of her book and was cursorily reading when he said gently:

“Now that we are good friends again, let us return to the subject on which we were interrupted in August, and to resume which I came here this morning.”

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, her eyes bright with interest.

He continued, low and earnestly:

“You asked me to help you to find a clue to your father’s murderer that the stain of unmerited disgrace might be washed from your mother’s name.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” breathed the eager young girl.

“Miss Vale, or Italy, if I may call you so—it seems so much more friendly—you cannot guess what a thorn was implanted in my heart by your request. I had loved your father dearly—dearly, and it was but natural I should wish to bring his slayer to justice. Yet—yet—suppose that my suspicions pointed to another friend whom I also loved? Can you fancy a situation more harrowing?”

His face was deathly pale, his eyes gleamed wildly, his voice was low and intense.

“Tell me,” he said persuasively, “have you not suspected a certain man we both know? Yes, I see it in your eyes.”

“No, no, I was wrong—I feel that I was wrong. I must seek elsewhere for the clue,” she cried wildly.

“No, you were right, Italy. Your instinct was correct, although now you wish to deny it out of a chivalrous respect for the memory of the dead—yes, the dead, for he whom we both suspect is no longer amenable to the law for his crime. He has passed to his dread account.”

Her eyes grew dim, her face ghastly.

“Oh, you cannot mean Francis Murray?” she breathed, in a voice of absolute agony.

“Alas! that I must answer yes, for it is plain to me that you gave him more regard than was his due. But, Italy, who else was benefited by your father’s death?”

“That is no proof of crime,” she cried desperately. She who had come to Winthrop to fasten that guilt upon Francis Murray was now mad to prove him innocent.

“True,” answered Percy Seabright sadly, “but suppose I tell you that Francis Murray, then a poor young man, at odds with fate, living far from Winthrop, was at The Lodge secretly the night of your father’s murder—came there secretly, went away secretly, and the next morning found himself heir to the Vale millions—what then?”

“If he were alive he could prove his innocence, no matter how dark the cloud of circumstantial evidence!” she cried.

“Poor child! you loved him, and your love blinds you. How can I blame you? for I loved him, too, he was so winning. In spite of what I knew I tried to believe him innocent, and I would never, while he lived, have betrayed my knowledge of the hidden crime of which I feared—not believed—he must be guilty. Yet he is dead—betrayal cannot harm him now—and how can I withhold from your desolate, orphaned heart the evidence of your mother’s innocence? But it is yours to do with as you will, to make public or keep secret as you will. Yet my own advice would be—let them rest, those two—your mother and the man you loved—in their quiet graves. By so doing you can shield his memory; and as for her, the jury found her innocent, and public opinion does not matter.”

“It does matter. Alas! you do not understand!” she cried out, in bitter anguish; then, desperately:

“What did that secret visit count against him? He was poor, you say? Perhaps he came to ask his kinsman for assistance.”

“And being refused took a dastardly revenge, eh?” returned Percy Seabright, with a grim pleasantry that made her shudder, it was so heartless.

“Oh, this is terrible!” she cried helplessly; then, with sudden, strange defiance: “You cannot prove what you have declared!”

“I can prove it—to Francis Murray’s face, if he were alive. Yet I do not say I can prove the murder. It is circumstantial evidence, you see, the same as it was against your mother. But both of them might be perfectly innocent. Suppose you employ a detective to ferret out the affair—only the publicity would break the loving heart of Francis Murray’s mother.”

“True, true, I will do nothing yet. I will wait—a little while—until I can make sure of something,” she declared, and Percy Seabright eagerly applauded her resolution.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAWYER’S STORY.

Italy had made up her mind by the next day, and a brief note to Lawyer Gardner brought him quickly to her side. He had not heard of his former client for years, and it was a great surprise to him to receive a letter from her daughter stating that she had lost her mother, and, having come to Boston on a matter of business, desired his advice.

He was a fine-looking man, between fifty and sixty, with a kind, shrewd, yet benevolent face that drew the girl’s heart to him at once.

As for him, he looked at her in pity and admiration, she was so beautiful, yet her lot was so sad.

“You were my mother’s friend and lawyer,” she said; “I want you to be both to me.”

She held out her little hand to him, and he pressed it warmly.

“I will do all that I can for you in both qualities,” he replied, and then she poured out to him her sorrows, the story of her mother’s tortured life, and her own vow to bring the real murderer to justice and clear her memory from all stain.

“I will confess to you that I at first suspected the man who succeeded my father in the Vale fortune, but he was lost at sea some time since, and is believed to be dead,” she added.

“You were wrong, Miss Vale. Francis Murray was one of nature’s noblemen, incapable of an ignoble action. I knew him well, and esteemed him highly as a gentleman, and admired his talents as an author.”

“But, Mr. Gardner, appearances are often deceitful. Remember Arthur Dimmesdale, in the ‘Scarlet Letter,’” she said.

Mr. Gardner answered decisively:

“Francis Murray was no criminal. Put that idea out of your head at once and forever, Miss Vale.”

His words were like sweet music to her ears. She decided not to tell him yet of what Percy Seabright had asserted.

“I want you to help me trace the murderer,” she said pleadingly.

“Miss Vale, I cannot take the case,” he replied, so abruptly that she flushed with anger, and retorted:

“I will go to another lawyer.”

“You must not—you shall not!” he cried out agitatedly, and caught her hand. “In mercy let this matter rest. You can do nothing but ill by reviving the case.”

“What can you mean?” she cried, startled by the similarity of his words with the advice of Francis Murray.

He looked at her doubtfully a moment, then said resolutely:

“God knows I hate to wound you, Miss Vale, but unless I tell you the truth you will go on with this Quixotic thing, and perhaps bring out hidden facts that your friends would be glad to shield from public knowledge.”

“Explain!” she cried out haughtily. And then he said:

“Listen, then, my poor child. After I succeeded in clearing your mother from the charge of murder, there came to me from a private source some evidence that was so black and conclusive that it would most surely have convicted her if given to the jury. But this evidence had been withheld by friends who loved Ronald Vale so dearly that they shielded the guilty woman, to save his child from the black disgrace that would have been her portion had the truth been known.”

Her bosom heaved, her eyes blazed, she cried out imperiously:

“I demand to know the nature of this hidden evidence, although even before I hear it I stamp it as an infamous lie!”

“Would to God it might be proved so, for your sake, my poor girl,” Lawyer Gardner answered sadly. “But, alas! it carries such conviction with it that even I, who had all along believed in your poor mother, was forced to accept it as conclusive. But for your own dear sake, I beg you not to insist upon hearing the story!”

Italy Vale caught her breath with a great strangling gasp at those words from the lawyer, and sat staring at him for a moment in appalled silence.

He on his part looked at her in sympathy and pity mixed with admiration. She was the most dazzlingly beautiful creature he had ever beheld, and as he noted the exquisite face and form, the white-rose skin, the magnificent eyes, the scarlet lips, the shining hair with its rich waves, he thought what a pity it was that this exquisite creature should have had so weak and wicked a mother, should have had the fair promise of her life darkened and blighted by the stain of a mother’s sin.

He saw the slender white hands writhing in and out of each other upon the dark crimson of her rich morning-dress, saw the fair face change from horror and shame into swift anger and incredulity. Then she spoke resolutely:

“It is good of you to try to spare me, but I am not afraid to hear the story you have to tell, for no evidence can make me believe ill of my mother.”

“You have a loyal heart,” the lawyer exclaimed admiringly.

“I worshiped my beautiful mother,” she answered, with pearly tears starting out upon her lashes. “Ah, Mr. Gardner, if you had known her as I did, her love, her sorrow for her dead husband, the ineffable sadness of her whole life, you could not doubt she was an angel.”

“I hope you will always keep this noble faith in her,” he replied, with a sigh from the bottom of his kindly heart.

“I shall, Mr. Gardner, but I must make the world believe in her, too, I must prove her innocence to all.”

“My dear Miss Vale, she was acquitted by the law. I beg that you will rest satisfied with the verdict of the jury.”

She crested her proud head impatiently.

“Listen,” she said, and he wondered that one so young could cling so tenaciously to a purpose.

“The world was not satisfied with the verdict,” she said. “Oh, I know it all, how she was hissed by the populace when she left the court-room, how popular clamor branded her, how friends fell away from her, and left her alone in the world with her little child.

“Ah,” she cried, with clasped hands and streaming tears, “it is the most pathetic story ever known, the sufferings of my martyred mother! But she shall be cleared, the truth shall be known, the world shall do her justice!”

Her face was holy in its pure purpose, but the listener shuddered.

“Will nothing dissuade you from this Quixotic purpose?” he cried imploringly.

“No,” she answered, with upraised hand and gleaming eyes, “I have sworn to unmask the fiend who murdered my father, and whose malignity has hounded my mother through the world all these wretched years. They are one and the same person, I am sure, and no entreaties can turn me from my purpose. Although I am groping blindly in the dark now, I feel a presentiment that Heaven will send light at last to guide me.”

“You are mad, you are blind!” cried Lawyer Gardner impressively; and he added:

“If your mother were alive she would be the first person to forbid your raking open the ashes of the past, for the smoldering coals when blown into flame would only throw light upon that which has been hidden in darkness—the motive for her sin!”

“How dare you? How dare you?” she cried, in a white heat of passionate resentment.

“I beg your pardon for wounding you, Miss Vale, but I am only trying to prove my friendship to you in all that I say. Leave the past alone, I implore you.”

“I will not,” she flashed angrily.

And with deepest pain and pity he replied:

“Then I must do you the cruel kindness of telling you the truth. That verdict of the jury is the greatest blessing her child could have. Beneath its merciful veil she finds her surest refuge; for, alas! Italy Vale, your mother was a—guilty woman!”

“It is false!” quavered over her ashy lips.

“It is true; and should that old case be reopened the truth might accidentally come to light, and blast you with its horror.”

His voice was full of unspeakable pain and pity.

“I do not credit your assertion yet—I demand to know all the truth,” came in a low, imperious voice from her white lips.

“It is not fit for the pure ears of a young girl,” Mr. Gardner answered sadly; and, looking up at her angry face, he quoted: “‘Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.’”

“I covet no such poor bliss as ignorance,” she cried, with a curling lip. “Speak! I demand it in the name of my injured mother! Let me know the worst that the infamous slanderer has done, then I shall know better how to strike a blow in her defense. Tell me all. I am waiting.”

It seemed to him that she was blind and mad as he had called her, but there was no retreat from betraying all that he knew. It was cruel, but perhaps it would deter her from her insane purpose of vindicating her mother’s name. It would rankle like a thorn in her heart, but perhaps it would teach her the worldly wisdom of saving the Vale name from further obloquy. With a heart-wrung sigh of the most honest sympathy, he bent forward and whispered low and rapidly in her ear for several minutes.

She sat and listened, her slight form rigid, her face pallid, her somber eyes gleaming strangely, and heard the saddest story ever breathed in a young girl’s ears against an idolized mother. And yet one with which the world is too sadly familiar!

It was that old story of a girl’s ambition, and then a woman’s frailty and sin. And this was what he said:

“Although Ronald Vale was a prince among men, and worthy of all honor and love, your mother gave him the hand without the heart. She was young and beautiful, the last descendant of a famous old Puritan family, but, alas! poor in everything but her own charms, and for ambition’s sake she married Ronald Vale.

“She became a social queen in New England society, and her husband worshiped her and believed in her love and purity as he believed in the angels. When your baby eyes first opened to the light your advent was hailed like that of a little princess. The father and mother both idolized you. A few years passed with seemingly fair skies, then the bolt of lightning fell—your father was found dead in his library, and the servants proved that your mother had been seen to leave the room stealthily just five minutes before he was found by the butler, murdered.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Italy breathed eagerly. “My mother told me, and then I read it in the papers she had kept for me. Papa was sitting up late that night to look over some papers his lawyer had sent him that day. Mama had been compelled to attend a reception without him. She remained but a short time, and went, on returning, to the library to bid papa good night before retiring. He told her not to sit up for him, as he would be detained an hour yet, and had ordered the butler to bring him some warm coffee presently. As she kissed him an affectionate good night she noticed his diary lying close to his elbow on the desk, as though he had been writing in it. Then she went out softly and came to the nursery to me, where, five minutes later, she was startled by the outcries of the butler, who, on taking in the coffee to his master, had found him lying dead, stabbed to the heart.”

“Those are the precise acts that were submitted to the jury,” Mr. Gardner answered. “But though circumstantial evidence pointed to your mother as the guilty party, still the absence of a motive so influenced the jury that they leaned strongly to a theory of suicide, and acquitted Mrs. Vale on that doubt.”

He paused and looked at her gravely, but she looked back at him fixedly without reply, and he added sadly enough:

“Alas! the motive was known to one who loved your mother—her secret lover, the partner in her frailty—but who, though doubting not her guilt, because she had hinted to him a desire for her husband’s death, was too loyal to betray her, and so by his silence saved her life and her honor. For no one had suspected the secret liaison that prompted her to the commission of murder.”

He paused, expecting and dreading a terrible outburst, but for a moment she did not speak, only stared before her like one in a trance of horror, her face dead-white, her eyes wild.

“Miss Vale!” he cried out, in alarm at her strange looks.

She started, shivered, and looked at him, gasping out:

“Oh, this is infamous! infamous!”

“I am grieved that I had to reveal it to you and destroy your loyal faith in your mother’s goodness,” he replied very sadly.

Instantly her eyes flashed with keen displeasure.

“Do not think that you have destroyed my faith in her; no, no, you could never do that,” she exclaimed proudly. “No, Mr. Gardner, you have but added another score to the long list of wrongs I have to avenge in my mother’s sacred name. But this man who pretended to be her lover—his name?”

“I cannot tell you, Miss Vale.”

“Do you know it?”

“I do not.”

“Then who can tell the traitor’s name?”

“No living person, Miss Vale, for the only man who knew the name and the story is believed to be dead.”

“Francis Murray?”

“Yes.”

There came back to her mind the hints Francis Murray had dropped that day in the garden when they had talked of this subject. This was what he had meant. A sudden flush rose over her face, bathing it in a burning tide of shame.

So he had believed this horrible slander of her angel mother? She buried her face in her hands for a moment, and he thought it was a mute acknowledgement of her terrible defeat. He began to murmur some words of heartfelt sympathy. She dropped her hands and looked up at him.

“You think I have pulled down my colors, that I own myself defeated,” she said curtly. “No, you are mistaken. Mr. Murray believed what he told you, of course, but—where is that man whose silence saved my mother? Why has he never been near her all these years?”

“Her crime inspired him with such horror that he refused her plea that he would marry her, and left her to her fate.”

Oh, the exquisite scorn of those curled lips, those flashing eyes!

“The dastard!” she hissed bitterly, and cried:

“He lied, basely lied, and I will yet bring home to him all the infamous slanders that have tracked my mother’s pathway since the hour my father died. Why, it is he, and no other, who murdered my father and followed my mother’s life with such hellish malignity. Oh, God! but to stand at the foot of the gallows-tree and see him swing!”

She choked with emotion, and hot tears sprang from her eyes, blinding their fierce glitter.

“Calm yourself, Miss Vale,” implored the lawyer.

She clashed the tears from her eyes, looked at him half-defiantly, and answered, in a steely voice:

“Nothing in what you have told me shows any cause for me to give up the search for new evidence to prove my mother’s innocence of all that with which she is charged.”

“You will only bring down irretrievable ruin upon your head,” he protested, growing alarmed at what seemed to him her stubborn hardihood.

“No,” she answered; “I shall triumph by the help of God, and then you will applaud me for my courage and my loyalty. Ah! I understand you, Mr. Gardner; you believe that might is right. You believe my mother was guilty because she could not defend herself, because she could not ward off the blows struck at her in the dark by a cowardly dastard. But wait, wait, and you shall yet see me avenge the wrongs of my parents. All is not lost while there is courage in one brave heart.

“You see how I feel. I cannot take your advice not to reopen the case. I shall bend every energy to the purpose I am sworn to. As for you, you shall help me or not, as you choose. I give you two days, Mr. Gardner, to decide what you will do. No, do not refuse without consideration. Think of it, weigh it well, and remember that a young girl’s prayers go up every hour to Heaven for your consent.”

He was about to speak, but she silenced him again with a queenly gesture.

“I will not take your answer for two days, sir. Come to me then with the words of consent on your lips. If you refuse me, I shall only go to another lawyer; I have money to push the investigation, and I shall not falter in my purpose, believe me.”

“So I have told you that dark story all in vain!” he exclaimed unhappily.

“No, not in vain, sir, for it has given me another important clue to work on. Oh, that Francis Murray were alive to-day that I might wrest from his unwilling lips the name of my mother’s traducer, whom I believe to be my father’s murderer!”

With a deep sigh, he took her hand to say good-by.

“God help you and bless you, you brave, noble girl!” he exclaimed, with irrepressible admiration of her courage in the face of such black despair, and he went away with a keen pain in his heart at the thought of her ultimate failure.

CHAPTER XVI.

ITALY’S RESOLUTION.

The lawyer had scarcely taken his departure before Italy had another visitor. It was that dainty, blonde beauty—Alexie Audenreid. She looked lovely in a handsome carriage-suit of dark-blue cloth and velvet that formed so pleasing a contrast with her curly, golden hair and peachy complexion. Her dazzling, dark-blue eyes were radiant with happiness.

“Are you ready to go for your sitting this morning? My coupé is waiting,” she said, then started in surprise at Italy’s agitated looks.

Ralph Allen was painting their portraits, and they went together each morning for alternate sittings.

“Oh, my dear! what is the matter? You are so pale, and you look like you had been crying?” exclaimed sweet Alexie anxiously.

“I—I—have a headache,” Italy faltered evasively. “Dear Alexie, I cannot sit to Ralph this morning. You must take my place, please.”

“But, Italy, come with me to the studio, won’t you? The morning is so bright and crisp that it will cure your head to get out in the fresh air, and you can rest on the sofa there, you know.”

Italy could not resist the sweet pleading of her friend, and she knew it would be better to get away from her own torturing thoughts for the present, so she hastily made a fresh toilet, and, joining Alexie, they were driven in the natty coupé to Ralph Allen’s studio on Tremont Street.

“You are late,” the young artist said, greeting them with his bright smile and a sweet, stolen glance at his adored one.

“It was all my fault. I was not feeling well and forgot my sitting until Alexie called for me. Then she had to wait for me to dress. And—I cannot sit to you this morning. Alexie must have my turn,” explained Italy, who was still looking ghastly pale and distrait with the memory of all that Mr. Gardner had told her that morning.

“You shall lie on the sofa and rest,” said the artist kindly. “And here is Mr. Seabright to amuse you.”

Percy Seabright came forward with his cheerful air and greeted both girls warmly.

“I heard that Ralph was painting you two on canvas together as ‘Night’ and ‘Morning,’ and rushed off to see it,” he explained. “It is going to be beautiful—beautiful! How arch and smiling Alexie looks as ‘Morning,’ ‘in her eyes the blue of the sea, on her hair the gold of the sun,’ and Italy, with that pensive, moonlight smile and her dusky hair and eyes, makes an ideal ‘Night.’”

They stood a few moments contemplating the canvas on which the two girl faces were growing in exquisite likeness to the originals, then Alexie exclaimed:

“Come, Italy, take off your hat and lie down on the sofa in this little alcove. I know Mr. Seabright will amuse you until Ralph finishes my sitting.”

She lay down and closed her eyes wearily, but knowing too well that she should not rest, but go on thinking, thinking, until her brain seemed to burn with its torturing burdens.

Suddenly a soft, cool hand fell on her hot forehead.

“Do you know that there is magic in my touch? Just a few light little passes, if you will permit me, and the poor head will be well,” said Percy Seabright’s voice, low and tenderly.

She did not answer, and he continued to stroke her brow and hair with light, caressing touches that did indeed seem to charm away the heated throbbing in her temples. Then she opened her eyes with a faint, grateful little smile.

“It is so much better—thank you!” she said, drawing back her head gently from the hand whose pressure was so tender she found it embarrassing.

“I knew you would be better,” he said smilingly. “Now close your eyes and you will sleep.”

“Oh, that I could sleep and forget,” she sighed, and let the dark-fringed lids droop wearily again.

Surely he possessed some magnetic power, or else the narcotic influence of pain overpowered her. She sank quickly into a deep, restful sleep, and the man by her side sat very still, watching the lovely, sleeping face and the closed lids, still delicately roseate from the tears she had shed a while ago.

“She has been weeping—over what, I wonder?” he thought curiously.

The studio grew very still as Italy slept and Ralph painted, though not very industriously, he exchanged so many sweet whispers with his beautiful model; but the sitting was almost over when Italy sighed softly and opened her eyes.

She saw Mr. Seabright still by her side, watching her with an air of tender devotion.

“I have really slept,” she said gently, forcing a smile for him.

“And your dreams were sad, for you sighed often in your sleep,” he said. “Forgive me for watching you so closely, dear little friend, but my heart ached for you. I saw that you had been weeping before you came here. Ah, Italy, how can I help you?”

His voice was divinely sympathetic, his bright, dark eyes softened with tender regard. It won upon her insensibly, this unobtrusive tenderness.

“You are so good to me,” she sighed gratefully, and whispered: “I had a very unhappy interview with Mr. Gardner this morning. I wanted him to search for new evidence against my father’s murderer, and he wished to refuse, but I would not permit him to say no.”

“He accepted the case?” Percy Seabright’s voice trembled over the question, and his face paled to an ashy tint.

“No, he did not accept. I gave him two days to consider the proposition, and I told him if he refused I would place the case in the hands of some other good lawyer. I think I shall employ some clever detective to follow up the clues in my possession.”

“And so you will follow up the clues and blacken Francis Murray’s memory and break his mother’s heart? Miss Vale, you surprise me,” he breathed reproachfully.

“And why?” she murmured defiantly. “My mother’s name was blackened, and her heart broken. If there are any who should stand in her stead and bear all that she bore let the blow fall upon them. There is no pity in my heart for the criminal. And yet—yet I do not believe that Francis Murray was guilty; no, no, no!”

A sullen light gleamed in Percy Seabright’s eyes as he said:

“I hoped you would be willing to forego this matter, but since you persist in pushing the search, remember that I can prove my assertion that Mr. Murray was at The Lodge secretly the night of the murder.”

“I will remember it,” she answered; then her eyes grew soft as she added: “But I believe in his innocence as I do in my angel mother’s.”

She glanced at him gravely as she spoke, and was startled to see his lips curl and his brows lift at the corners in that diabolical sneer of his that had frightened her once before, and that transformed him all in a moment from a Doctor Jekyll to a Mr. Hyde.

“Oh, don’t,” she cried, in a voice of pain, and the ugly scowl faded into sullen gravity.

He said quickly:

“I am glad of your absolute faith in Francis Murray, and I will help you in your researches all that I can, if you will keep me advised of your progress, and tell me what to do.”

“Thank you,” she answered gratefully, and just then Ralph released his pretty model for that day, and the conversation became general.

A little later they all took leave of the artist, Percy Seabright claiming that he had to go out to his country house that day on business. His smile was very bright as he said adieu, but when he turned away the malignant scowls returned and lingered.

At Winthrop, in the beautiful villa by the sea, the days and weeks dragged by, leaden-footed in their torturing anxiety and deadly suspense.

The lonely mistress of The Lodge had at length given up all hope, and wore mourning for the son she believed to be dead. She had aged years and years in those weeks of anguish. Her iron-gray locks had whitened to snow, her eyes were dim with weeping, her face and form were thin and wasted. Grief had wrought a deadly work. But if there was one emotion stronger in her heart than sorrow for the dead it was hatred for the living—resentful hatred of Italy Vale.

All the loss and sorrow that was weighing her down she dated from the hour when that dark-eyed beauty had crossed the threshold of this peaceful home and bewitched her proud, handsome son—led him like a will-o’-the-wisp on to his dread fate.

“Why did I ever counsel him to receive her into this peaceful home? He was reluctant enough at first, but I told him it was our duty to our kinsman’s daughter. Alas! how miserably I am punished for my kindness! I might have known that her mother’s child would bring woe and desolation under any roof where she dwelt. Those great dark eyes, that flowerlike face, how soon they wiled Francis from his first shuddering dislike, until, in spite of himself, he grew to love her! If he had lived he would have married her, I know. Perhaps it is better he died than to have wedded one with that dark brand of a mother’s sin upon her head! But, ah! I must go down to my grave a lonely old woman, and never fondle my son’s children upon my knees.”

She wept hot, scalding tears, for she had a true, womanly heart, and the dream of her life had been to see her grave, intellectual son wedded to a fair and loving wife, and hear his little children’s voices making music in the quiet, aristocratic halls of the stately home.

But all was ended now, the hopes, the plans, the longings. All those future lives, the beloved daughter-in-law, the children that were to call her grandmother, were buried with Francis in his vast and wandering grave in old ocean’s deeps. The winds and the waves as they sounded ceaselessly in her ears seemed to moan their requiem.

Then one day there came shambling up the steps at The Lodge a rollicking-looking fellow in sailor garb, not too clean or tidy, and with a rough, hairy face, not too frank or honest in expression. He put out a grimy paw and rang the door-bell as loudly as though he were the bearer of good news instead of a vulture of fate.

It was the same day on which Italy Vale sat waiting impatiently for her answer from Mr. Gardner. The early autumn twilight was hurrying on, and the sea was veiled in rising white mists. Lights already glimmered through the windows of The Lodge, for the desolate mistress could not bear the darkness and her own sad thoughts.

The loud bell-pull resounded through the quiet house, and presently there appeared before Mrs. Murray a respectful servant announcing that a sailor-man was waiting in the little reception-room to see her on important business.

A sailor-man! Who could it be? Perhaps—oh, could it be? he might bring—news? Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation. She staggered in her wild haste to reach the man’s presence. He rose up before the stately pale-faced lady, and bowed awkwardly.

“You—you—bring me news—perhaps?” she faltered tremulously.

“Yes, of your son, lady. On the night of the twenty-fourth of August I was on board a sailing craft hereabouts, and in a fog we ran into a little dory and cut it in half. Directly afterward we picked up a man in the water with his head cut very bad. Oh, lady, I’m sorry to pain you, but he died in a few hours later.”

“My son!” she cried in a voice of mortal agony, and seemed to collapse in her chair, a white senseless heap.

The sailor went closer, and shook her rudely.

“Please, lady, don’t go off like that till I’m done my story. I’m in a hurry to go.”

Her eyes opened and stared at him blankly, as he continued:

“The man said as how his name was Francis Murray, and he offered us big money to put him ashore here, but we was bound for Buenos Ayres with a cargo, and didn’t want to put back; besides we didn’t know as he could pay us like he said or not. So we told him no, and our surgeon told him he had to die, so if he wanted to leave any message for his friends he’d better. Then he got the surgeon to write a letter to his mother, and he signed it. He was too far gone to do much, but then he wrote the address, and I promised that when we came back from the voyage I’d bring you the letter, that’s all, and we buried him the same night at sea.”

He pushed the letter hurriedly into her trembling hand, and before she could speak hurried from the room, leaving her alone to read the last dying message of her son—the message and the confession that was to deal the most crushing blow that ever fell with the suddenness of a lightning bolt on a loving mother’s heart.

CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. MURRAY’S ANGUISH.

Italy Vale waited with burning impatience for Mr. Gardner’s decision.

The day waned to its close, the purple shades of early twilight darkened, and the silver sickle of a new moon rose in the opal sky, still no word, no answer. She had been pacing the floor of her room for hours with a pale face and a wildly throbbing heart.

“Why does he delay like this when he knows how impatient I am? Is it possible he can have forgotten?” she cried resentfully, pushing back the dark curls from her brow that burned with a feverish heat.

At that moment Mrs. Mays tapped lightly on the door.

“He is come,” she thought gladly, and sprang to open it.

“Miss Vale,” said the kindly landlady, “there is a messenger-boy below from a law-office wishing to see you.”

With a low cry of something like terror, Italy started back, her face paling to a ghastly hue.

She thought of what Isabel Severn had told her about the office-boy at Mr. Gardner’s, who was watching for her face and would know it anywhere again.

“I must not let him see me,” she told herself wildly.

“Why, what is the matter, my dear young lady? You seem to be frightened!” exclaimed Mrs. Mays, in a tone of surprise that put Italy quickly upon her guard. She exclaimed with a groan:

“Oh, no, Mrs. Mays, I am not frightened, but I have a severe attack of facial neuralgia, and am suffering too much to see any one, or at least a stranger. Will you not do me the kindness to go down and tell the boy that if he has a letter or message for me he must deliver it to you?”

“Certainly, my dear,” and she bustled away, while Italy murmured bitterly:

“Mr. Gardner refuses my prayer. That is why he sends a message instead of coming himself. He cannot meet my reproaches.”

She was right, for presently Mrs. Mays returned with a letter, saying:

“The boy went away without waiting for an answer.”

Then, seeing that the young girl preferred to be alone, she withdrew, after saying kindly:

“If there is anything I can do for your dreadful neuralgia, ring your bell, and I will come at once.” Italy thanked her, with a blush stealing over her face at the falsehood she had uttered.

“To what depths I have fallen in this cruel necessity for caution,” she thought sadly, and tore open her note. She read:

“My Dear Miss Vale: After a careful review in my mind of all that I know and all that you said to me yesterday morning, my opinion of the case remains unchanged.

“I believe that the wisest plan for you is to remain satisfied with the jury’s verdict given long ago in your mother’s case. That verdict declared her innocent, or, at least, gave her the benefit of a doubt. But should you investigate too closely it might result in her conviction. She is dead, so it cannot harm her, only to blacken her memory still deeper. All the obloquy would fall on you, her helpless orphan child. Knowing this to be true, and feeling the sincerest friendship for you, I must refuse to assist you in your own destruction.

“I advise you earnestly to let the whole matter drop, and devote your mind to other things more suitable and natural to a young girl than this morbid state of feeling.

“I have spoken to my wife about you. She is deeply interested, and will call upon you to-morrow to request you to become our guest for a while. I hope that you will consent to do so. We will do all in our power to further your comfort and your pleasure.

“Cordially your friend,

Mark L. Gardner.”

A moan of the cruelest disappointment came from Italy’s pale lips, and she tore the lawyer’s letter into fragments and trampled it beneath her feet.

“Thus do I scorn his advice,” she thought bitterly, and she resolved that on the morrow she would seek a good lawyer and employ his services.

She scorned the idea that investigation would fix the crime either upon her mother or Francis Murray. Her heart spoke loudly for the man who had been so kind to her, and whose thrilling words rang in her memory night and day:

“Italy, love, darling!”

“He loved me—loved me in spite of my suspicions of him. He was grand and noble—he could love me in spite of all my wilfulness and my scorn of him! Ah, but I must forget all that! My heart owned him for its master. Oh, God, send him back to me that I may tell him how I wronged him, and that I love him now and pray for his pardon!” sobbed Italy, in an abandonment of bitter grief.

Ah, how cruel it is to love with all one’s heart some dear object that is removed from us by all the breadth of earth and heaven, how cruel when the heart swells with love that can never be uttered, when the yearning arms fall listless, empty of caresses.

Italy wept bitterly that Francis Murray was dead, for now she knew that she loved him with her whole heart, that to him had been given the devotion Emmett Harlow had prayed for in vain.

Alas! she would almost have been willing to die rather than face the hour that was hastening on so fast with its agony of keen despair. But even as she wept in her desolation there was coming up the steps a woman warmly wrapped from the cold of the autumn night in heavy furs and shawls. She rang the bell, and asked for Miss Vale.

“Miss Vale is very sick with a neuralgic attack. I do not believe she will be willing to see you, so if you have any message send it by me,” replied Mrs. Mays, mindful of the fate of the office-boy.

The woman, who had the air and bearing of a clever lady’s-maid, handed her a letter.

“I will wait for the answer, please, ma’am,” she said, sitting down in the hall.

And again Mrs. Mays tapped at the door of her boarder and handed in a letter.

“The woman that brought it is waiting for an answer,” she said, a little curiously, for two letters in one evening both coming by messenger, seemed rather mysterious.

“Come in, Mrs. Mays, and wait a moment. I dare say it is Miss Audenreid’s maid with a note from her mistress. Perhaps she wants me to go with her to the theater to-night, but I am not well enough,” answered Italy calmly.

She broke the seal of the letter and read the contents with startled eyes. It was from Mrs. Murray, but the writing was so blurred and blotted as to be almost illegible, being evidently written under the stress of strong excitement. It began abruptly:

“Italy Vale, if you have any forgiveness in your heart for the heartless treatment of a woman who was half-crazed with grief, come to me to-night. I have sent my maid to bring you, and she will take care of you. Come quickly, for I have startling news for you, and I must tell it soon, for I feel death hastening on, and when I have told it I must lie down and die!”

The letter fell from Italy’s shaking hand, and she turned a face of wild despair upon the kindly landlady.

“I have—bad news—Mrs. Mays,” she faltered, and the kind soul took her in her arms and held the dark head tenderly on her breast.

“Poor dear—poor dear,” she murmured, and caressed her as if she had been her own dark-haired Isabel.

Italy lay quiescent several moments, her heart beating wildly against Mrs. Mays’ supporting arm. She knew quite well from that grief-stricken message that Mrs. Murray must have news of her son’s death. There was no longer any hope.

“Perhaps you would like to see the woman, my dear?” suggested Mrs. Mays kindly.

“Yes, oh, yes, send her to me, please. She is sent to take me to the death-bed of my friend, her mistress,” faltered Italy, weakly, and the kind soul placed her on a sofa, picked up the fallen letter, and putting it in the owner’s hand, went down-stairs again.

Italy, with her hand over her eyes, sobbed bitterly.

“Dead, dead, dead, my noble friend! Ah! no wonder that his mother’s heart is broken.”

“Don’t take it so hard, dear Miss Vale,” murmured a kind, sympathetic voice, and dropping her hand, she saw the face of Mrs. Murray’s maid, an intelligent middle-aged woman, who had shown her much kindness while she was at The Lodge.

This woman now continued:

“It is dreadful, isn’t it, her getting reliable news of her son’s death! and all of us hoping and praying that he would turn up alive and well some day. But that hope is over now, and she took to her bed the minute she got the news. But she wants you. She says she’s dying, but she can’t die till she’s seen your face again. I had to go to Mrs. Dunn’s to find out your address, and it’s getting late, so if you please, I’ll help you dress, so we can get back to Winthrop as soon as possible to my poor, dear, suffering mistress.”

Mrs. Murray did indeed look like a dying woman as she lay there panting on her bed when Italy entered softly, having removed her hat and wraps in her own room, where the maid had first conducted her.

Ordinarily the meeting must have been an embarrassing one to both women.

They had never looked on each other’s faces since the day when Mrs. Murray had forbidden Italy to go to the moonlight party. A few days later she had left The Lodge by Mrs. Murray’s desire, and their life-paths had run in separate ways.

But now the sympathy of a common sorrow had drawn the two hearts together so closely that it was almost like a meeting of mother and daughter.

Mrs. Murray’s awfully pale and changed face turned in mute agony to the girl, and she half-extended her arms. Italy with a heart-breaking sob rushed to the bed, and, falling on her knees, clung to the stricken mother, pressing on her corpselike cheek a mute caress.

The sympathetic maid withdrew, leaving them alone together to mingle their bitter sobs, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but those low and mournful sounds of a mother weeping for her son, and a young girl for her lover.

It was sad enough to move heaven and earth to pity.

At length Italy sobbed in a choking voice:

“Oh, can you forgive me for my share in his death? Oh, if only I had not gone with him that night—if only——” her voice broke with the convulsive heaving of her breast.

But all at once Mrs. Murray writhed herself out of the loving arms that held her, and groaned in an agonized voice:

“You would not speak like that if you knew! You would not kiss me as you did just now. You would hate me—hate me for my son’s sake!”

Her blue eyes, so dim already with bitter tears, overflowed in streams that ran in rivers down her pallid checks. She raised herself up in bed and clasped her pale hands together as she repeated:

“You would hate us both, Italy Vale—hate us for the wrecking of your young life, for your father’s death, and your mother’s long agony. Alas! alas! alas! that I have lived to see this hour!”

Her agony was piteous, and Italy stared at her in dismay. What could she mean?

“Do you see how ill I look, Italy?” continued the half-frenzied woman. “Well, I am dying, surely dying. My heart broke when I read that letter from my son, and I seemed only living longer just to send for you and to tell you, as he bade me—oh, my God!—that terrible story.”

“You have a letter from him—oh, then he lives, he lives!” Italy exclaimed joyfully.

“No, child, my son is dead. And it is better so—better had he died in his helpless infancy than lived to work such irredeemable woe!” answered Mrs. Murray distractedly.

Then as she saw the wonder in the young girl’s beautiful, pale face, she tried to calm herself.

“Ah, you think me mad!” she sighed. “You have no thought of the horror that has come to me, and that is coming to you. But no, no, to you it will be joy. The shadow of sin will be lifted from your mother’s memory; the world will revere her as a martyr, while they execrate my son as a demon! Ah, God! if only I might die with this story untold. But, no, no, it is my duty to speak, though the words blast my lips—to speak, and then die of the deadly dart that is rankling in my heart!”

It was terrible to witness the agitation of this formerly cold, proud woman, who bore herself usually with the calm hauteur of a duchess. It mystified Italy more and more. She began to think that Francis Murray’s death had driven his mother insane.

“Dear Mrs. Murray, calm yourself,” she faltered. “Be brave, be courageous. You do not know what hard and cruel things you have been saying of your noble son!”

“My noble son! Oh, Heaven!”

And the rising wind that began to shriek dismally around the house answered with a moan like a lost soul in pain.

A storm was rising. Old Neptune was abroad on the waves. The hoarse murmur of the ocean as it broke in loud, sharp reports upon the beach came in regular beats to their ears, with that subtile sense of trouble always inspired by an angry sea.

“Come and sit in this chair close by the bed, Italy, and I will tell you of my son’s death,” said Mrs. Murray, making a fierce effort to control her overmastering agitation.

Italy obeyed her, but she said tenderly:

“Dear Mrs. Murray, do not speak of it to-night; you are too ill. I can wait until to-morrow.”

“To-morrow I shall be dead. I must tell you now and quickly, for I must not die like a coward and leave that secret untold. I must obey the dying command of my son and reveal it all to you—it is your due, my dear girl—only—only you must not exult in my presence, Italy, because I could not bear it!”

And while the wind roared and the sea moaned outside, and Italy gazed at her with somber, wondering dark eyes, she began:

“At sunset to-day there came to me a rough sailor with a letter and a story. That night when the little dory was cut in twain by a large vessel, my son was picked up by the crew with a dreadful wound upon his head. He lived but a few hours, but before he died he dictated a letter to the surgeon for me, and made them promise to deliver it on their return from Buenos Ayres. To-day the sailor brought me the letter signed by my son’s dying hand, and addressed by him. Oh, Italy, can you guess what he wrote?”

CHAPTER XVIII.

A LOYAL HEART.

The dying woman’s voice was shrill with agony.

Italy shook her head, but she thought thrillingly:

“He must have told his mother of his love for me, he must have left me word to cherish his memory until we meet in heaven.”

Mrs. Murray thrust her hand beneath the pillow and dragged out a letter. She flung it with a groan into the girl’s lap, then buried her convulsed face in the pillows, her form heaving with long, shuddering sighs.

The letter rustled in Italy’s trembling white hand, the wind outside gathered itself for a stupendous effort, and roared and shrieked around the gables like a company of demons, the hollow waves boomed on the shore like ghostly voices of the drowned, but Italy heard and saw nothing else but the letter in her hand, the white page with the black words on its whiteness, each individual letter seeming like a little black fiend setting an awful seal of shame on the whiteness of Francis Murray’s life. For the letter was a confession of crime.

At last Mrs. Vale was vindicated, at last the world that had wronged her by its hideous judgments would behold her life truly as that of a martyr. That tender white hand had never driven home the dagger in the breast of the husband she loved. No, it was a man’s strong hand—the hand of his impecunious kinsman, Francis Murray.

Maddened by a refusal of a monetary favor, and envious of the rich man’s wealth, he had struck an impulsive blow that stretched Ronald Vale dead at his feet. Then the poor young man on whom the sun had set in sullen, desperate poverty found himself at day-dawn a millionaire with his hideous crime unsuspected and the finger of suspicion pointing at his victim’s beautiful young wife.

It was a story to make the angels weep, the story of that young wife’s martyrdom, and briefly told as it was by the dying criminal, it moved the heart to alternate horror and pity—horror for the man, pity for the woman robbed at one fell stroke of all life’s joys except her dark-eyed child. And at the end of this dark confession of sin ran the closing sentence:

“Mother, I send this to you because I know not if Italy Vale was saved or not from the wreck that caused my death. If she be alive send for her and let her read this letter and clear her mother’s memory from all stain. If she be dead this duty falls on you. Fail not to perform it under penalty of the solemn curse of your erring son, now passing to his last dread account with Heaven.

Francis Murray.”

She sat like one turned to stone with her staring eyes fixed on that name—that name written with a trembling, dying hand, yet unmistakably the chirography of Francis Murray.

Oh, fiend, fiend! And there lay his proud mother dying of horror at the revelation of his monstrous crime!

The war of the elements outside increased in demoniac fury. The lightning flashed, the thunder pealed, the rain drove in torrents against the walls, but blind and deaf to it all the one woman lay shuddering with her face in the pillows, the other sat in her chair, her eyes agleam with somber light, her face pallid, her lips curled with some strange, overmastering emotion.

Suddenly she leaned forward, and almost rudely shook the woman among the pillows. Fire flashed from her splendid Oriental eyes, burning words leaped to her lips:

“Mrs. Murray, I am ashamed of you!” she cried angrily. “You are his mother, yet you can believe this cruel thing of your noble son! Then you never loved him, never! But I—I loved him, and I denounce this letter as a forgery, a black and cruel falsehood!”

Those passionate reproaches broke upon the elder woman’s senses with the force of an electric shock. Wildly she sprang upright, wildly she looked at the beautiful young creature who had torn in a hundred pieces that fatal letter, and flung them in a fury of scorn upon the velvet carpet.

Italy had sprung from her chair and was standing over her, her lips quivering with feeling, her eyes flashing.

“I had not believed this of you, Mrs. Murray,” she repeated reproachfully. “Did you not know him as the soul of kindliness, truth, and honor? Was he not your boy, your Frank, whose sunny curls lay on your breast in infancy, your son, whose strong arms supported your declining years so gently? Tell me—did you ever know Francis Murray to be guilty of one unworthy or ignoble action?”

“No, oh, no, no!” cried out the startled woman eagerly.

“You did not? In all his thirty-three years of life? Yet you could listen to the slanderer’s tale; you could credit this cruel forgery! Oh, Mrs. Murray! I am ashamed of your credulity!” flashed out Italy, with stormy emotion.

The elder woman caught her breath pantingly, and a gleam of light flashed into her sunken, hopeless eyes.

“Get up from that bed, Mrs. Murray, for you must not die yet; you must live! live to hunt down the black-hearted schemer who plotted this vile deed! live to welcome your son back when he returns to brand this falsehood as a device of Satan!”

Oh! the light of hope that flashed into the hopeless eyes, the color that flushed the frozen cheek of the woman who had been dying one moment before of sheer despair and shame! She rose from the bed unaided—she who just now felt too weak to raise her hands—she fell on her knees and clasped Italy Vale with adoring arms, lifting to her a face radiant with joy. She cried eagerly:

“You believe in him? you take his part! you, whom I expected to denounce him, and to rejoice that he was proved guilty that your mother’s memory might be cleared! Girl, girl! you are an angel!”

And Italy, stooping, pressed a reverent kiss on the gray hair of the woman kneeling in humble gratitude at her feet.

“No, madam; not an angel, but a very faulty human being,” she answered gently. “And one of my faults, if fault it be, is never to believe harm of one I love. And I—I loved Mr. Murray, although I did not realize it until he was dead, as I feared. Oh, do not think me bold for confessing this secret to you, his mother.”

“God bless you!” sobbed the woman who had once hated her so bitterly; and as Italy placed her gently in a chair, she added:

“Your faith in him makes me live again, drags me away from the dark shores of death, and the star of hope shines again for me. Oh, my noble, true-hearted girl, teach me some of your faith and confidence! That man—that sailor—how could he come to me with that story and that letter, signed by my son, if it was all a falsehood?”

Italy had drawn forward a low ottoman, and was sitting like a child at the lady’s feet. She answered with a question:

“Mrs. Murray, what were the names of the sailor and his vessel?”

“He did not tell me either.”

“Nor where to find him when you wanted his evidence to prove his story?”

“No, he simply gabbled over the tale like one reciting a lesson, and as I sank back, half-fainting, at the news of my son’s death, he thrust the letter rudely into my hand and hastened away.”

“And that letter, Mrs. Murray, did not contain the name of the vessel, nor of her captain, nor of the surgeon who wrote at your son’s dictation, nor of the sailor who was to bring it to you? Do you remember all these omissions?”

“Perfectly, now that you recall them to me, Italy, although I was so agitated by it all at first that I believed it blindly, and took no note of the suspicious omissions you have recalled to me. Dear child! how bright and clever you are! But, alas! how can you account for my son’s signature to the confession, and his hand again in the address upon the back?”

“Clever forgeries, dear madam, and perhaps we may some day unmask the wicked schemer who plotted this dastardly thing.”

“Oh, my darling girl, how good and noble you are! Can you ever forgive me for my cruelty and unkindness? Although it would never have happened but for the evil counsels of selfish friends,” sighed the lady remorsefully.

“Dear madam, I can well understand that, and there is no resentment in my heart. I wish only to be your friend!”

“My daughter!” cried Mrs. Murray tenderly, and pressed an impulsive kiss on the upraised white brow of the girl, casting aside forever all her unjust prejudices in her overflowing gratitude for her noble faith in Francis.

“Oh, my child, I should surely have died of this horror if you had not put new hope into my heart!” she cried. “Oh, Heaven, send me back my son that he may be happy with his mother and his wife! For he loved you, dear—he loved you well. I read his secret plainly.”

A flash of happy light gleamed in the girl’s eyes, but she said simply:

“I have the greatest faith that he will return to us some time. He may indeed have been saved by some outward-bound vessel, and in course of time may come back to us. Let us try to believe this, and never give up hope.”

“Then you must stay here with me, Italy, and keep the spark of hope alive in my despondent breast.”

“I will stay gladly if you wish me, for your friendship will be very precious to me, dear Mrs. Murray. And as for that forged confession, let us never speak of it to any one. Then the villain will know that his scheme has failed.”

“But, Italy, who could have hated my Frank so badly as to wish to blacken his memory with the foul stain of that awful crime?”

CHAPTER XIX.

FRANCIS MURRAY FOUND.

She looked anxiously into the beautiful, excited face, and Italy answered solemnly:

“Before I answer your question, Mrs. Murray, will you let me tell you the story of my mother’s life since my father’s death? I know you believed her guilty, but let us waive that now, and deal with the probabilities of her innocence. Will you listen while I take her part?”

“Dear child, you are always taking some one’s part. It seems to be a divine attribute of your sweet nature, and who could blame a loving child for believing in her mother? Go on, Italy, and I will listen patiently as long as you wish.”

“Thank you, bless you!” cried the grateful girl.

And while the storm raged on outside with equinoctial fury, Italy, sitting humbly at the elder lady’s feet, poured forth the pathetic story of her mother’s sad and blameless life, and dwelt strongly on the mysterious foe who had pursued her with relentless hate, sending anonymous letters about her to every town where she took refuge, and inspiring even strangers with such horror of the murderess that they regarded her with hatred and fear combined, and so made of her a lonely, wandering exile with no friend on earth but her little child.

Mrs. Murray was startled, surprised. She had never heard before of this mysterious persecution of Ronald Vale’s widow.

“Mrs. Murray,” said the girl resolutely, “I have a theory of my own. It was not mama who killed her husband, it was not your son who killed his kinsman. The murderer was the man who has pursued my mother with such fiendish malignity.”

“It must be true—it must be true!” Mrs. Murray cried eagerly.

“It is true,” Italy answered solemnly. “Oh, Mrs. Murray, look at the facts. This hidden foe, not content with his poisonous anonymous letters, whispered to Francis Murray and Mr. Gardner a slanderous story involving mama’s honor and making her guilt plausible. At length I grew up, and learning all the bitter truth, vowed to give my life to the vindication of my mother’s name. And he, this hidden assassin, who struck in the dark at my father’s life and my mother’s honor, finding out, no doubt, that the avenger was on his track, and frightened lest he be found—this assassin, this fiend—plots cunningly to lay the crime on a man believed to be dead, and thus incapable of striking back. So there is my answer to your question.”

“And before Heaven, I believe that your theory is correct all through. We will join hands, Italy, and hunt the villain down.”

“You sympathize with my hopes and aims?” cried Italy, in wonder.

“Yes, dear, and will aid you all that I can. I would give much to have your mother’s innocence proved, and the dark shadow lifted from her name.”

“Bless you, bless you,” wept Italy, in boundless gratitude. “You are the first one to give me a word of hope and encouragement. They have all said:

“‘Leave the case alone, she was guilty, she was guilty!’”

“She was innocent! I firmly believe it now,” cried Mrs. Murray warmly, and her tears flowed at the thought of Mrs. Vale lying in her lonely foreign grave, dead of a broken heart.

They talked a long time together, and when they parted tenderly to retire for the night, Italy said:

“Perhaps that sailor was the murderer himself in disguise. He has gone away triumphant, believing that I will seize eagerly on that confession, blazon it to the eager world, and give up the search for the real criminal. But we will thwart him there. The forged letter lies there on the floor in a hundred fragments. Let us keep silent over that stupendous falsehood. He will know then that we did not believe it, and our silence will be a menace to his safety.”

“But, oh, Italy, who can the guilty one be?”

“The white light of Heaven will show us some time, Mrs. Murray. Now, good night,” and they parted, each solemnly vowed to keep the secret of the forged confession, and little dreaming of the awful blow that would fall on both to-morrow.

Leaving Mrs. Murray and our sweet Italy at Winthrop, we will go back to that August night upon the sea when, in the windless fog, the small dory had been cleft asunder by the prow of a steamer that, unable to rescue them in the dense mist that prevailed, had gone on her majestic way, leaving them to their threatening fate.

We have seen how Italy, clinging to a fragment of the boat, had drifted in to the shore; we must now follow the fortunes of our noble Francis Murray for a little space.

The shock of the accident had thrust him apart from Italy, and also given him a smart blow upon the head that made his senses reel. When he came to himself he was lying on his back in a portion of the wreck, his face upturned to the moonlit sky, and his only sensation one of burning pain in the head. The fog had passed away, so he must have been a long time adrift, but thought and memory were gone. The blow on his head had destroyed all sentient consciousness save the animal one of pain.

In this condition he was rescued by a smart sailing-vessel bound for the south of France. The vessel had a most humane captain and crew. They vied with each other in kindly attentions to the handsome stranger they had saved from a watery grave. But it soon became evident that he was suffering so much that he was conscious of nothing but his own pain. There was nothing on his person to indicate who he was, and when interrogated as to his own identity, he answered feebly that his head pained him so he could not remember.

There was not a woman on board, but there was a very kindly disposed young physician who had undertaken this sea-voyage for the benefit of his weak lungs. From the young doctor and the kindly crew Francis Murray received the best care. His beautiful, manly face was a passport to their hearts. They felt very sure that he was a person of importance, and did all that they could to arouse his slumbering intellect.

But all in vain, for, though after a while he improved and ceased to complain of the pain in his head, his memory remained a complete blank. Life dated for him from the moment he had come to himself like a new-born babe out there on the illimitable sea with the August moon shining in his pallid, wondering face, and only a few frail planks between him and eternity.

They could guess with almost certainty from the wreck of the accident that had befallen him, and Doctor Loring talked of a probable pressure on the brain of some small bit of bone, no doubt fractured by a blow.

“If we can only get him to France it will be a beautiful operation for one of those clever French surgeons to remove the little bone and restore to him his memory. Why, it will come back like a flash!” cried the doctor enthusiastically, and he took the most wonderful interest in his handsome patient.

Captain McVey was quite anxious for Doctor Loring to perform the operation himself, but he declined.

“I have not the proper instruments for the surgical operation required—no, nor the steady nerve. We must trust our patient to one of those skilful French fellows!” he replied, and looked forward ardently to the day.

But in the necessarily slow progress of a sailing-vessel many weeks must go by before they landed, and in the long, long silence the hearts at home were breaking in the belief that he was dead, while fiendish malice was plotting to lay upon the memory of the supposed-to-be-dead man the burden of a black and bitter crime.

We must not forget, either, another favorite of ours—Emmett Harlow.

Emmett had a cultured, intelligent mind, and, being very well read, was exceedingly fond of travel. He was enjoying his tour as much as any one could do with a sore and aching heart. But there is a wonderful balm for grief in change of scene, and he was, unconsciously to himself as yet, proving this truth.

At times, when brooding over Italy’s wondrous beauty and charm, he was bitterly unhappy, and it seemed to him that he could not bear his life without the hope of some day calling her his own. Again he would feel more cheerful and try to throw off the spell of his hapless love.

While journeying on the storied Rhine he met up with some American friends, a gay party, from whom he gleaned all the news from Boston, and heard for the first time of the supposed death of Francis Murray. It was a severe shock to Emmett, for he had been cordially attached to this noble friend.

“She will miss him, too, for he stood toward her in the light of a guardian, and he watched over her so kindly and carefully,” he thought, then his mind reverted to Alys Audenreid.

“Alys has lost him, after all—that is, I never thought she had the least chance at him, anyway, but she and that scheming aunt of hers were doing all in their power to slip the matrimonial knot over his neck,” thought the astute young man, who was a keen student of character and had long ago seen through the shallow motives of the woman who had uttered that cruel falsehood against him on the yacht.

He wrote immediately to Mrs. Murray a long letter of sympathy and condolence on the death of her son, and sent a message of regard to Italy, whom he supposed to be still at The Lodge.

But for a while his thoughts clung to her more persistently than ever. He thought of her sad and sorrowful over the death of her guardian, and it touched his heart.

There were several beautiful young girls in the American party, but even their blandishments had no power over his fancy.

It returned always to the lovely girl whom he had both admired and pitied at Winthrop; she was so beautiful, yet she had seemed so friendless among all those alien hearts.

He hoped she was happier now, and that she had won her way to Mrs. Murray’s proud heart.

“For she must be very lonely now that Francis is dead, and it ought to make her heart warmer to that poor, friendless orphan girl,” he thought, little dreaming how cruelly Mrs. Murray had visited her son’s death on Italy’s head.

“Poor girl! if she could but have loved me I would have lavished gold in the effort to make her happy,” he sighed over and over.

And it seemed to him that all his wealth availed nothing since he could not spend it for Italy. He spent long hours dreaming over her beauty, and longing for even one glimpse of her, although he knew that it was best that he should not see her until he had conquered his heart’s longing.

It was in August that he went abroad. In October he found himself in a quaint little French town on the coast, and something quite startling happened. He was still with the American party, drifting idly whither they went, and one day the papa of one of the charming girls came in from a stroll, and said:

“I met up with a friend from Boston to-day, young Doctor Loring. Perhaps you know him?”

“Heard of him at home—but not acquainted,” Emmett Harlow answered carelessly.

“Doctor Loring—oh, my! That charming fellow! Papa, I hope you invited him to call,” chirped his vivacious daughter.

“Of course, and he said he would come this evening, Maud,” replied paterfamilias, whereat all the pretty girls applauded, openly, for two reasons:

One was that they all knew the young physician and liked him very much, and the other was that they wished to pique Emmett, who was so placidly indifferent to all their charms.

They would not have felt so much slighted had they known that he was the suffering victim of a hopeless love, that must have time to wear off the keen edge of its despair, but Emmett was too proud to confess his trouble when they rallied him on his dejection. He courted no sympathy, he knew that silence was best. No true man can tamely bear pity.

Doctor Loring came promptly that evening, glad of an opportunity to meet American friends on this foreign shore. He was bright and vivacious, and soon told the story of his trip on the sailing-vessel that the balmy air of the sea might heal his ailing lungs.

With the story of the trip came also the story of the mysterious patient picked up at sea and now waiting in a French hospital for the operation that was to restore his memory. As he finished the recital his eye chanced to fall on Emmett Harlow. He was startled at the eagerness of the young man’s look.

“What is it, Mr. Harlow? You seem agitated!” exclaimed the doctor.

“I am deeply interested in your story, deeply anxious to see your mysterious patient. If you will permit me, Doctor Loring, I will return with you to the hospital this evening,” replied Emmett earnestly; and the physician protested that he would be very glad of his company.

In a little while he saw in the young man such signs of veiled impatience that he made his visit shorter than he had intended; and soon led the eager Emmett into the French hospital, and to the presence of the man he had half-expected to find—Francis Murray; Francis Murray, the man from whom he had parted in Winthrop with a friendly handclasp, but who now met him with the careless glance of the stranger.

For the familiar face of the youth he had known and loved for years made no impression on the dulled mind. Friend or stranger, it was all one to Francis Murray. He knew no voice nor face. It was a dreary, hopeless blank, the past.

If Emmett Harlow had known that Italy Vale’s whole heart was given to this man, would he have rejoiced in finding him like this—mind seemingly wrecked, memory gone, nothing remaining of all his splendid gifts except his manly beauty; would he have exulted in the mental overthrow of his successful rival?

No! for Emmett Harlow had a heart of gold, and was incapable of an ignoble thought or deed.

In a voice husky with emotion he revealed to Doctor Loring the identity of the stranger for whom he was so kindly caring, and the young man’s eyes beamed with delight.

“Francis Murray! The author, whose few but splendid scientific works I have read with keen delight—is it possible?” he cried eagerly, and his anxiety for the stranger’s restoration grew more keen than ever.

“But the surgeon is very busy; he cannot operate on his head for a week yet,” he said regretfully.

“If a handsome fee would be any inducement,” began Emmett; but Doctor Loring answered quickly:

“It would not move Doctor Chastain if you offered him a fortune. His engagements are many, and he cannot come to the hospital until the day of his regular appointment here.”

“And, in the meantime, I ought to write to his poor mother and tell her that her son is alive,” exclaimed Emmett.

“I would advise you not to do so yet,” the physician replied, with sudden gravity.

“But why?”

“Because, my friend,” said Doctor Loring impressively, “all surgical operations are attended with some degree of risk. I hope this one will be successful, and I believe it will be, but as I said just now, it will be better to wait a little while that you may know definitely what news you have to write to Mrs. Murray.”

“I will wait,” Emmett answered, with a heavy sigh, and his blue eyes grew dim as he looked at Francis Murray’s unconscious face. “I will stay by him whatever happens!” he vowed generously, and so the bright October days slipped into bleak November.

CHAPTER XX.

MR. GARDNER PROMISES HELP.

It was the day succeeding the night of Mrs. Murray’s complete reconciliation with Italy Vale. The storm of the previous night had died down into the gloom of a raw, sunless day. The sky was leaden, the air was cold and frosty, with now and then some hurrying flecks of hail or snow; the sea, still rough and angry, boomed sullenly upon the shore.

After breakfast the two ladies were sitting alone in a warm, bright little parlor, Mrs. Murray’s favorite retreat in chilly weather. It opened by a glass door into the conservatory with its wealth of bloom and fragrance, and was always cozy and cheerful.

A servant entered quietly, placed the morning’s mail on a table by Mrs. Murray, and withdrew.

Mrs. Murray began to open her letters and Italy took up one of the morning papers, a leading daily.

Each began to read, and for some little time unbroken silence reigned. Suddenly a sharp, gasping cry came from Italy’s lips, the paper rustled in her hands and slipped down upon the floor, her head fell back inertly against the chair, her face looking like ivory against the rich-hued silken draperies.

Mrs. Murray sprang toward her with a cry of alarm, thinking from the inert pose and closed eyes that she had fainted. But as she touched the cold little hand she perceived that it was trembling, and then Italy moaned almost inaudibly:

“Oh, this is terrible! terrible!”

“What is it, my dear? Speak! You frighten me!” cried Mrs. Murray, pressing her hand eagerly. “Are you ill?”

“No, no,” and the heavy eyes unclosed, and Italy feebly lifted her head.

Her glance fell on the paper, and she murmured:

“It is there!”

“Something that you read, my child?” and Mrs. Murray picked up the paper and ran her eyes over the columns.

She did not have to seek long. There it was in black headlines and blasting words:

“At Last!—The Mystery of Ronald Vale’s Murder Solved at Last!—A Well-remembered Criminal Case Recalled to the Public Mind—Mrs. Vale Nobly Vindicated After a Martyrdom of Almost Fifteen Years—Confession of the Murderer, a Man Whose Life was Believed to be Spotless—He Lived Among us Fifteen Years, and Enjoyed the Confidence and Esteem of All.

“This paper is the first, as always, to print the first statement regarding the new developments in a case that had in it all the elements of mystery, tragedy, and crime. One of our clever reporters, while strolling through the great, wicked city last night, gathered from the lips of a half-intoxicated sailor in a low saloon a startling story, whose truth he vouched for in the strongest terms.”

There followed substantially the same story the sailor had told Mrs. Murray, with the addition that the sailor knew the contents of the letter, having heard it dictated to the surgeon by the dying lips of the murderer. Francis Murray was here held up to the execration of all, and the highly colored, sensational article expatiated glibly on the whole affair, and closed by tendering its sincerest sympathies to the shade of the departed Mrs. Vale, who was believed to have died abroad of a broken heart, leaving her young daughter to the guardianship of the wicked kinsman, in whom she had placed the most implicit faith.

Oh, the agony of the mother’s heart as she read those words and realized that her beloved son, her idol, was thus held up to the execration of the whole world!

“Let us bear it together!” moaned Italy, creeping into her arms with a desolate sob, and their tears mingled.

The first passion of grief exhausted, Italy lifted her head, her eyes gleaming through tears like purple-dark pansies wet with rain, and cried indignantly:

“Let us go at once to the editor of that paper—let us make him deny it all to-morrow!”

The two fond, foolish creatures went at once into Boston on this mission. But if there is one thing under heaven that the editor of a great daily paper abhors, it is to own himself in the wrong—to publish one day a startling, sensational story, and to announce on the next that it was all a mistake, that he had been victimized.

And to do this special editor justice, it could not be said that he was mistaken, for Mrs. Murray, on his rigid cross-examination, could deny nothing, the sailor’s visit, nor the written confession, signed in Francis Murray’s hand. She could only assert, with passionate vehemence, her disbelief of the whole story, declaring it a plot to ruin her son.

The editor blandly promised to give publicity to her opinion to-morrow, and expressed himself as sorry that the sailor’s story had gotten into print, since there were grave doubts as to its credibility. Since Miss Vale herself, and here he bowed admiringly to the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, took Mr. Murray’s part, of course the sailor’s statements could not be reliable.

They returned sadly enough to Winthrop, and waited eagerly for the next day’s paper with its promised vindication of their beloved one. But it was very disappointing.

The wary editor was not going to spoil his sensation or weaken its effect by casting doubts on the sailor’s credibility. It was quite in the light of another sensation that it chronicled interviews with the mother and ward of Francis Murray. Naturally, it said, Mrs. Murray was unwilling to believe in her son’s guilt, and Miss Vale, who had been, it was said, his affianced, also believed he was innocent. It was quite true that the blameless life of the accused went a long way toward proving him guiltless, yet Mrs. Vale’s life had been fair, too—so fair that the jury had pronounced her not guilty, although the world had held quite a different opinion.

Well, both were dead now—Ronald Vale’s wife and kinsman—and the world would have to decide which was guilty, the woman who had denied it, or—the man who had confessed it with his dying lips.

And so the clever editor, pretending to keep his promise to the two women, only got in another sensational article, and managed to leave on the public mind his own conviction that Mrs. Murray and Italy were very weak and silly, and that there could not be any reasonable doubt of Francis Murray’s guilt.

The morning’s mail brought to Mrs. Murray letters from Ralph Allen and his sweetheart, Alexie, both breathing profoundest sympathy and undying belief in her son’s innocence.

“And I wanted to come to you yesterday as soon as I read that dreadful piece in the paper,” went on Alexie. “But Aunt Ione would not let me. Oh, I am dreadfully afraid she believes that sailor, she and Alys both, but I am going to steal away soon and get Ralph to bring me over to Winthrop to see you and Italy. Keep up heart, my dear friend, for I believe Mr. Murray may be yet alive, and that he will return to you some day and prove all those charges false.”

While they were yet lingering over those kindly letters a card was brought in for Italy. It bore Mr. Gardner’s name.

She went to him at once where he was waiting in the library, and he rose with a face full of sympathy.

“I read the papers yesterday and to-day,” he said. “Ah, Italy, it is noble in you, this loyal faith in Francis Murray.”

She looked him keenly in the face.

“And you?”—she asked. “Is your confidence unchanged?”

“My God, yes, my trust is shaken,” he answered, with an agitated face. “Look, Italy, what if it be true? Remember he was the man that told me the story defaming your mother! What if he invented it himself to throw suspicion on her? What if he was the sole author of the slander?”

He was wildly agitated, his nerves shaken, his suspicions awakened against the man he had once believed so noble. But her eyes flashed indignantly at his words.

“You are wrong, all wrong! You shall not lay that sin on Francis Murray! He is not here to defend himself, so I must speak for him! And listen, Mr. Gardner; I hurl back in your teeth the suspicion of his guilt! How dare you be so untrue to him?” she panted angrily.

He gazed at her with kindling admiration, and answered earnestly:

“I thought you would be glad to have your mother proved innocent!”

“Glad! Why, I would give my life!” she answered in a voice of heart-piercing eagerness, and again he thought, admiringly, that her loyal faith in Francis Murray was admirable. Before he could reply she spoke again, impulsively:

“I tell you now, Mr. Gardner, as I told you before, that there is a hidden foe behind all this. The sailor was a hired agent, the confession was a forgery. Come, you have pretended to be Francis Murray’s friend. Lend yourself to the task of clearing his name. You know the best detectives in the city. Employ the best one. Set him on the track of this unknown sailor, and, perhaps, we may at last unearth the most cunning and deep-dyed criminal the world ever knew! Ah, help me, help me,” and she held out her white, helpless little hands to him with an imploring sob.

He could not resist her prayer. He took the outstretched hands and clasped them with fatherly tenderness.

“I will do what I can, Italy,” he answered, and she thanked him with a burst of grateful tears.

“Heaven has begun to take pity on me at last!” she cried, and implored him not to lose faith in Francis Murray.

“Above all, do not let his mother know that you have had your faith shaken for an instant,” she added, and he promised that he would not.

He left her and she returned to Mrs. Murray with the glad tidings that the most eminent lawyer in Boston was going to help them to unearth the cunning criminal who had broken so many hearts.

The slow days freighted with sorrow came and went drearily until ten days had passed, but nothing else happened to disturb the dreary tenor of life at The Lodge. Alexie Audenreid came with Ralph for the promised visit, and made a flitting gleam of brightness in the gloom, but Ralph gave Italy the sad news that little Mabel Severn, the baby she had named, had died the day before, fading out of life like the frailest summer flower. The young mother, he said, was almost frantic with grief.

Italy’s heart ached for the mother’s grief, yet she could feel no regret for the little one removed so early from life’s troublous scene.

“For what if little Mabel had lived like me to pledge her life to tracking down her father’s murderer? what heartache and sorrow must have been hers!” she thought.

She longed to go to the unhappy young widow and condole with her in her sorrow, but there was an awful barrier between her and Isabel Severn that held her back. The sight of that pale, suffering face always brought back that night of horror when the false husband had met his doom, and she shuddered at the thought of how she had fallen fainting in that pool of the traitor’s blood.

CHAPTER XXI.

FRANCIS MURRAY RECOVERS.

Alone in her room at night Italy Vale wrote long, long letters that were always blotted by her tears. And when she had sealed and addressed them to a certain sister of charity in a French convent she would kiss the picture in her pocket and whisper thrillingly:

“My dearest one, my heart’s darling—oh, will you understand? Will you believe as I do? Can you be patient and wait a little longer?”

When she had written one of those letters to the sister of charity, Italy always tossed a long time on her pillow before she could go to sleep. Then her lashes would glitter with the dew of tears, and her bosom heave even in its sleep with sobs.

Once when she first came to The Lodge she had seen Mrs. Murray glance curiously at her letter as it lay with the other mail, and had explained carelessly:

“It is Sister Mary at the convent where I went to school, you know.”

Many long letters came to her, too, from the French convent. She always took them to her room to read alone, always kissed them and carried them in her bosom until another one came.

If any one had seen her it would have been thought that the letters came from a lover. Girls did not kiss letters from any but a sweetheart. But the solution of the mystery was close at hand.

One day there came to Italy a cablegram from France. When she had read it her face flushed, then grew deadly pale; she trembled like a wind-blown leaf.

Mrs. Murray was regarding her intently. She asked anxiously:

“Have you bad news, my dear?”

Italy crushed the cablegram into her pocket, and answered unsteadily:

“Come with me to my room. I have to tell you something.”

“You have news of Francis!” cried the mother wildly.

“Not of him,” Italy answered, and spoke no more until they were alone, out of hearing of the servants.

Then she placed a chair for the lady, and knelt humbly at her feet.

“Mrs. Murray, I have to make a confession to you, and to crave your pardon. I have deceived you,” she faltered.

“My child!”

“I have deceived you,” repeated the girl sadly. “When I came to Winthrop I told you I had lost my mother. It was not true.”

“Italy!”

“My mother lives!” said the girl. She waited a moment, but there was no reply, and she continued:

“You will hate me for deceiving you, I know, but I must tell you all the truth. When I heard my mother’s sad story my suspicions fell on your son. We talked it over, and she agreed with me that the suspicion was plausible. I conceived the plan of coming here, gaining the shelter of this roof, and trying to bring home his crime to your son. You shrink from me. Ah, I do not blame you, for when I knew him well I grew ashamed of my suspicions. But then I hated him, and I persuaded mother against her will to let me come. She went into a convent to stay—Sister Mary to whom I write, you know—and I came here as you know, with my poor little story and my hidden scheme for finding my father’s murderer. You know how I have failed, and—she has grown impatient, missing me so much—she has been begging me to come home;” she paused and looked at Mrs. Murray’s face, so white and rigid as if carved from marble.

“Oh, Mrs. Murray, can you not guess?” she wailed, “I wrote to her of this horrible thing that has happened, but I told her our suspicions were all wrong, that it could not be true. But my letter—she has never received it, for—this cablegram from her, from my dear mother—tells me she has seen it in the papers, that awful story, and believing it all, glad of her vindication, impatient to see me again, and yearning for her native land, she sailed for America to-day!”

Italy gazed almost imploringly into Mrs. Murray’s face, for she feared that her deception would never be forgiven.

Mrs. Murray’s face had indeed grown almost as rigid as marble. She realized, as Italy did, the terrible embarrassment that must ensue from Mrs. Vale’s return to her native land.

It would not be easy to convince the wronged woman of Francis Murray’s innocence. The world would side with her and declare that his dying confession must be true. There would be no one but his mother and Italy to take his part. They looked into each other’s eyes a moment in blank despair, those two who loved Francis Murray so devotedly, and his mother answered through raining tears:

“How can I help but forgive you, dear? You were wrong at first, but you have nobly atoned for your girlish folly.”

Sorrow had softened her heart, or she would have been bitterly indignant at learning why Italy had come to Winthrop; but the young girl’s noble defense of her son had made her heart very tender.

They both knew that they must bear whatever was coming to them as bravely as possible, for there yet remained one hope. Mr. Gardner, now that he had taken up the case, might find out the truth that had been hidden so long, might vindicate Mrs. Vale and Francis Murray both.

The slow days slipped away, and while they waited in weary suspense, hope was dawning again for Francis Murray in the foreign hospital across the sea. The operation had been performed—was successful—memory had returned at the very moment that the pressure was removed from the brain, and, looking up into the faces around him, he had exclaimed wonderingly:

“Emmett Harlow!”

Tears of joy sprang into the young man’s eyes as he found himself so quickly recognized. Earnestly he pressed his friend’s hand, vowing to himself that he would soon restore him to home and friends.

He found himself glad of an excuse for returning home, glad that he should see her face again. He made arrangements to sail at once with his friend for America.

Mr. Murray decided that it was best to go without first writing to apprise his mother. But on the very day before they sailed some American papers fell into their hands. And to the last day of life they would never forget the shock of that moment.

In those columns was sensationally told the romantic story that had already startled Boston, with the additional news of the return of Mrs. Vale to the city where she had been so cruelly ill-judged.

The fickle public that once had hated her had given her a perfect ovation, but repentance and atonement came too late, for on the still beautiful face of the martyred woman was written the record of a sorrow too deep to be consoled. Glad as she must be that the shadow of disgrace and crime was lifted from her life, there could never be any more happiness for her widowed heart.

Francis Murray and Emmett Harlow looked at each other with pale faces and startled eyes.

“Who has done this thing?” they cried in wonder.

And there came suddenly to the older man a remembrance of what Italy Vale had told him of the hidden enemy whose venom had poisoned her mother’s life.

“Can it be the trail of the same hidden serpent?” he pondered.

But suddenly Emmett said thoughtfully:

“It must be some person who is friendly to Mrs. Vale who has done this thing, for she alone reaps the advantage of it.”

“That is true,” said his friend.

And there came to him a suspicion so dark that he would not breathe it aloud. What if Mrs. Vale herself had concocted this scheme to clear herself from obloquy?

“Well, you will soon be at home to deny the confession and confound the schemer,” cried Emmett exultantly.

There was a moment’s silence, then Francis Murray said:

“No, they believe me dead. Let them still think so.”

“What! you will blot yourself out of existence and let your enemies triumph?”

“Yes.”

“But think what you are doing. The world execrates your memory and your mother’s heart is breaking. How can you bear this?”

“My poor mother!” groaned Francis. “But, Emmett, if I go home now, I shall be arrested for Ronald Vale’s murder on the strength of that forged confession.”

“You have nothing to do but deny it.”

“True! but what if the world refuses to believe me? They might say I made the confession while I believed myself dying, but on recovering am trying to skulk out of it.”

“They would have to prove that you made the confession, and the paper says that the sailor cannot be found, although detectives have been placed on his track.”

Francis Murray remained gravely thoughtful for some time, then said, with a deep sigh:

“Things look very black against me now, and the mystery of Ronald Vale’s murder is enveloped in a network more puzzling than ever. I begin to see dimly that Italy was right in believing her mother innocent, although I, too—Heaven pardon me!—scarcely doubted her guilt. But I was wrong, all wrong, and I must undo the past by the future. Yes, I will track down the villain and forger who has laid this guilt upon me, and while working to clear myself, I will strike a blow in Mrs. Vale’s defense, too. I have a plan, Emmett, and I know you will help me to carry it out.”

CHAPTER XXII.

MRS. VALE SHOCKS HER DAUGHTER.

December snows lay deep and white all over Boston, but the sky was deeply blue, the sun was shining bright, and the merry jingle of the Christmas sleigh-bells filled the air with music.

In the small but dainty drawing-room of a pretty house on one of Boston’s principal avenues, a mother and daughter sat at the lace-draped window watching the gay vehicles flashing past.

Mrs. Vale had coldly declined Mrs. Murray’s invitation to Winthrop, and had made a home for herself and Italy in an aristocratic neighborhood in Boston. Here they had become the recipients of social attentions from the élite of the city. Friends of old flocked around the returned exile, trying to atone for the cruelty of the past. And on this beautiful Christmas morn the drawing-room was littered with elegant gifts and fragrant flowers, kindly tokens from loving hearts of friends.

Mrs. Vale was not yet forty, and looked much younger in spite of the trials she had borne. Her rich, golden hair showed no trace of silver, and there were few lines of age on her delicate face, only an expression that somehow showed that, for her, the fulness of life was over.

The settled sadness of her pale, clear face was in deep contrast to the subtile unrest of her daughter’s, with its deep, passionate eyes and proud, red lips.

Between the mother and daughter there was one tabooed subject. It was Francis Murray.

Italy firmly believed in his innocence, and her mother just as firmly believed in his guilt. Who could blame her? for had not Francis Murray and his mother turned the cold shoulder to her with the rest of the world?

“And all the while he was guilty, the dastard!” she cried loathingly, and shrank with abhorrence from meeting his mother.

It was cruelly hard for Italy. She loved them both, these two saddened women, and she would fain have brought them together. But Mrs. Murray, as well as Mrs. Vale, realized the impossibility of this union.

“No, she believes my son guilty, I should suffocate in her presence,” cried Mrs. Murray.

“Her son killed my husband. I could not breathe the same air with that woman!” cried Mrs. Vale.

So they had never met, and it was but rarely Italy could gain her mother’s consent to go to Winthrop.

Mrs. Murray’s life at The Lodge was now inexpressibly lonely, and worn with keen suspense, for the clever detectives had failed entirely to trace the mysterious sailor. It was believed that he must have shipped the same night upon another vessel, for he had never been seen again after he staggered out of the low saloon where, in a half-maudlin condition, he had related to a reporter and a score of other listeners, the thrilling story of Francis Murray’s confession of Ronald Vale’s murder.

In addition to the search that was going on privately, there were advertisements inserted in all the leading newspapers offering inducements to the sailor to return.

Mr. Gardner was secretly much discouraged at all these failures. He began to dread that there was nothing more to discover.

“And yet poor Francis Murray was my true friend. How can I believe him guilty?” he would ask himself reproachfully.

As Mrs. Vale and Italy sat together at the window this Christmas morning, an obsequious servant entered and presented a card to the former.

Mrs. Vale’s pale, beautiful face became, if possible, paler, and her voice was imperious, as she said:

“Tell the gentleman we are not at home.”

The trim, becapped maid glided out, and Italy somewhat curiously took up the card that her mother had thrown carelessly down upon the floor. She read on the bit of cardboard the name:

“Percy Seabright.”

Italy had not seen Mr. Seabright since that day in October at Ralph Allen’s studio, but knowing his wandering, Bohemian habits, she had felt no surprise.

Alexie Audenreid had told her only a week previous that he was in New York, and that Aunt Ione was furious because one of her friends there had written her he was dancing attendance on an actress there, a married woman at that, and that a divorce would very likely come of the flirtation.

“Aunt Ione will make him walk straight once they are married,” added Alexie, “but he is a sad flirt, and she is jealous of everybody he looks at now—married women and widows especially. She says they are all designing creatures, and just as anxious for beaus as the single girls. She says I am a fool to let Ralph get so interested in his landlady’s daughter, the pretty Widow Severn, and that she will rival me if I don’t look out. But I pity that sweet sad young thing just as much as dear Ralph does, and I know he will never love any one but me.”

All this rushed over Italy’s mind now, and she exclaimed:

“Why, mama, how strange that you refused to see Percy Seabright—dear papa’s dearest friend!”

She saw a quiver pass over the pale, beautiful face.

“Do you know him, Italy?”

“Why, of course, mama. We met often before you came. I must have written you about it.”

“Not one word, my child!”

“How very strange that I forgot to mention him, my dear mama. And I like him so very much, too, mama!”

“You like him—why?”

“Oh, mama, what a question! He is very kind and pleasant—and if he were not I should still have to like him for papa’s sake! They loved each other, you know, and were very intimate friends.”

“That is no reason you should love him, Italy, for—I—I—hate Percy Seabright!” cried Mrs. Vale, in a voice of loathing.

As Mrs. Vale uttered those strange words she started up from her seat, her eyes flashing with a steely glitter, her cheeks flushing warmly.

“I—hate—Percy—Seabright!” she repeated chokingly.

“Mama!”

Italy’s eyes were wide with wonder, but Mrs. Vale began to pace restlessly up and down the room, her long black velvet dress with its rich fur trimming trailing far behind her on the thick carpet. She was excited to the verge of hysteria, and seemed to almost forget Italy’s presence.

“Oh, how that man’s name brings back the past!” she cried, wringing her slender white hands in anguish. “Oh, Ronald, Ronald, it was of him we spoke that last, last night when I came to you in the library, and you promised, promised——” her voice broke in a long, wailing sob.

Italy was shocked. It was but seldom that her sad, quiet mother ever gave way like this. She hurried to her side, and slipped her arm about the slight waist.

“Oh, my dearest one, what is it? Were you not willing for papa to be his friend?” she cried.

“Ah, my child, I have betrayed myself! I did not care that you should ever know this! But come, sit beside me on the sofa and I will tell you all.”

Italy sat beside her, looking in wonder into the agitated face, and waiting curiously for the explanation. It seemed strange to her that any one should dislike bright, debonair Percy Seabright, who was always so kind.

Then she suddenly remembered that Emmett Harlow had frankly avowed an aversion to him, and she herself had seen faults in him, although he had laughed them off with his winning air, and she had generously tried to excuse them.

“It is something like this that has vexed mama, no doubt,” she thought, and her mother’s first words confirmed her belief.

“After all,” she said, “perhaps I feel too strongly on the subject; perhaps I ought to forgive him, but do not think, my darling, that I was jealous of your father’s love for his friend. No, no; it was Percy Seabright that hated me!”

Then Italy remembered suddenly that she had never heard Percy Seabright express one kindly feeling toward her mother.

“Oh, mama!” she cried, aghast.

“Percy Seabright disliked me before I was married, he hated me afterward,” went on Mrs. Vale, with that crimson spot still burning on her pale cheek, and her eyes agleam with blue fire.

“But, mama, why?”

“I was poor then, you know, Italy, and no one knew that my uncle, who so kindly cared for me, intended to make me his heiress. He was a bachelor, but still quite young enough to marry. But when you were only two years old Uncle Leonard died and his fortune came to me. But Percy Seabright, before I was married, tried to persuade your father that I did not love him, that I was marrying him for his money.”

“Shameful!” cried Italy, with flashing eyes.

“Was it not?” cried Mrs. Vale warmly. “But Ronald would not believe him. We were married, and he continued to hate me. I believe he was foolishly jealous of my husband’s love for me. Anyhow, we never became friends, and I found out at last that he was always plotting to turn my Ronald’s heart against me. The knowledge made me very bitter against him, and that night when I went to Ronald in the library my heart was very sore with something I had heard at the reception, some slighting words Percy Seabright had said about me. I told everything to my dear husband, and begged him to break off with Percy because he was mean and deceitful, and not worthy to be my darling’s friend.”

“Oh,” breathed Italy, intensely interested, and Mrs. Vale continued:

“Ronald was very angry, and threatened to call Percy out the next day, but I told him no, I did not wish it. I only wished he should withdraw his friendship from the traitor. He promised, with a caress, that he would do so, and added that he had long been losing faith in his once friend, and would not be sorry to give him up!”

“Oh, mama, what if, what if——” Italy cried wildly.

“My dear?”

“What if—it has been—this man who followed you with his hatred all these years? It must be, because it is so plain!” the girl panted.

“No, dear.”

“But, mama, it must be. He might even have——Oh, could he have caused—could he have killed papa?”

“Dearest, you talk wildly. Percy Seabright loved your father too well to harm him! Yet, I confess these suspicions came to me. But they were baseless. He was in New York that night, and—he reached home—only in time for the funeral. He fainted over the coffin, and was ill afterward for days. But he behaved generously after that. He combatted the world’s verdict that I was guilty. He advanced and clung to the theory that Ronald committed suicide. He rejoiced when I was cleared, and offered me his friendship in that winning way so few can resist. I think he was sorry for me, sympathized with me in our common sorrow over a loved one’s death. But—my nature is not a forgiving one—I could not forget nor forgive his former enmity. I turned my back on him, coldly declined his friendship, and—have never seen him since.”

“And you do not believe that he is your enemy still?”

“No, dear, not in the face of his proffered friendship and his seemingly sincere repentance. Doubtless he believed all that he charged against me, but why should he war with me further—a woman whose heart was broken!”

“And you cannot learn to tolerate him, mama?”

“No, Italy, every instinct of my nature is in revolt against this man despite his repentance. I hope never to gaze on his false, smiling face again.”

Italy kissed her tenderly, without replying. She was thinking of that Mephistophelian smile she had sometimes caught on Percy Seabright’s lips. It had always revolted her, and suddenly it came to her that a man with so evil a smile might be capable of any wickedness. She went to the window again and looked out at the snowy street and the passing sleighs with her head in a whirl.

“I wish I had known all this before,” she thought. “It puts a new face on everything. What if—what if this man is a fiend in disguise! Oh, how my head whirls! Francis Murray, I remember he tried to lay the crime on you! Let me think, let me think! Oh, what a flood of suspicions crowd upon me! Is this man, this Percy Seabright, who loved my father so dearly, a saint or a fiend? I must know; I will watch him, I will try to trap him. Dear Heaven, help me, I implore!”

She heard her mother’s passionate sobs from the sofa, where she crouched in an agony of reawakened recollection, and her heart grew hard as stone toward Percy Seabright.

“Liar!” she breathed hoarsely. “Perhaps it was from you that Francis Murray heard that dark and blighting story of my mother’s dishonor—that falsehood that should have seared the lips that breathed it. Ah, at last I have a clue! I must follow it warily, and perhaps it may lead to the awful truth! If only Francis Murray were here, I believe he would help me now! Shall I tell Mr. Gardner what is in my mind? No, not yet, for he is as blind as my mother, who believes in Percy Seabright’s honesty of purpose in spite of her dislike of him. The path is dark, dark, but I must venture on it a little way alone. Oh, for a guiding hand in this black darkness!”

The burning tears rolled down her cheeks and blinded her to everything. On that fair Christmas morn, Italy Vale felt herself the most desolate girl beneath the heavens.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MEMORABLE SLEIGH-RIDE.

But fate had another surprise in store for Italy ere the sun set that day. In the early afternoon a double sleigh stopped before the door, and from it descended three persons—Alexie Audenreid, Ralph Allen, and Emmett Harlow.

Emmett had returned three weeks previous, and had made his first call ten days ago, so Italy was not surprised to see him.

The young man was boarding in the same house with Ralph Allen, as also the friend that had come with him from Europe, a big, handsome German professor, with a fine curly blond beard, and long hair as curly as his beard and almost as fair. His dark-blue eyes were so weak that he used glasses habitually, and had a lazy, slouching manner peculiar to profound students. But for this, and his slovenly style of dressing, Professor Doepkin would have appeared a remarkably attractive personage.

Italy had not met the German yet, but she had heard of him from her other three friends and knew that he and Emmett were inseparable friends, although the professor was so absorbed in his books that he had no time for general society.

“But he has made friends with Mrs. Severn and admires her immensely,” said Ralph, and then Emmett added:

“Do you know, Miss Vale, I think there is quite a likeness between you and Mrs. Severn? Of course she is a little older and the sadness of her manner spoils the charm of her beauty to some extent, but yet she is very lovely.”

“I admire Mrs. Severn very much,” Italy answered cordially.

So now here were the three friends clamoring for Italy’s company on their sleigh-ride.

“We will take no denial,” cried Alexie.

“You cannot refuse a bride anything, you know,” chimed in Ralph, laughing. The wedding, in fact, was but ten days off, and cards were already out.

“Go, dear,” said Mrs. Vale persuasively, and then Italy hesitated no longer. She felt that the fresh, cold air would cool her burning temples.

How delightful it was under the warm fur robes. Her color rose and the light came back to her eyes. Emmett looked at the glowing beauty so fitly framed in sealskin cap and cloak, and sighed to himself:

“She has many lovers, they tell me, but no one will ever worship her more faithfully than I do.”

He loved to watch every line of that young and charming face, and unconsciously to himself he had grown fond of watching Isabel Severn’s face as they met daily at table, just for the likeness he fancied in its dusky beauty to that of Italy. It lacked brightness and color, for tears had washed away its girlish bloom, or the haunting resemblance would have been even more striking.

How brightly the sun shone on the dazzling crust of snow, how pure was the keen, cold air, how joyously the sleigh-bells rang! Italy’s spirits began to rise a little from the leaden weight that had pressed them down all day.

They were miles out into the country now; the houses were few and far between, the open fields, the tree-branches, the roofs, the fences all lay white and dazzling under that royal mantle of spotless, new-fallen snow.

“Look, there is Mr. Seabright’s house! How beautiful the place is under all that snow!” suddenly cried out Alexie.

Italy turned her head, and then she received a shock that she never forgot to her dying day.

The red brick house setting back among the thick evergreen shrubberies, now bending down under the weight of the snow, was the same house to which Craig Severn had carried her that never-to-be-forgotten night when he was murdered—the house from which she had escaped, she knew not how, to be found at midnight wandering the streets of Boston in her night-robe.

With these rushing thoughts came the memory of the portrait of Percy Seabright that she had seen on the wall.

“It is his house. Why did I never suspect it before?” she wondered; then she heard Emmett Harlow saying, in a voice of disgust:

“That old house ought to be razed to the ground. Percy Seabright has made it a sort of club-house for a fast lot of men, and the most reckless gambling goes on inside its walls. There are dark hints of several suicides committed there by men stripped of everything in reckless play.”

“Oh, I don’t think it can be as bad as that!” cried generous Alexie. “Mr. Seabright keeps up the house all the time, though, he says, and gives card-parties now and then to his young friends; but Aunt Ione detests the place as much as you do, Emmett, and she says as soon as she is back from her wedding-tour she means to have it torn down.”

“It strikes me that Mrs. Dunn is preparing to rule her husband with a heavy hand. I hope you are not inoculated with her propensity to rule or ruin,” Ralph cried, a little testily, and the girl laughed good-naturedly. She was as sweet and gentle a soul as ever lived, and would always yield to Love’s gentle guidance.

They had left the red-brick house in the distance now, and perhaps no one thought of it again but Italy—Italy who had such cause to remember it.

“I wish,” she said to herself, “I wish I could get into that old house and search—for my father’s missing diary that my mother believes holds the clue to my father’s fate. Perhaps—perhaps—Percy Seabright has it! My mother’s revelations to-day have roused in me suspicions that can never be dispelled until I know the truth. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

Alexie’s voice broke in suddenly on the girl’s troubled thoughts:

“Speaking of Aunt Ione, reminds me that she has refused to chaperon our theater-party to-night. Going with Mr. Seabright to a grand ball, you know—and grandmama seldom goes out in public. Italy, will you come with us—you and Mrs. Vale?”

“We can ask her when we go back. She admires Bernhardt very much.”

“So does Professor Doepkin. He has actually promised to make one of our box-party to-night,” said Emmett, and that decided Italy to go.

She had heard so much of the big blond German she felt quite curious over him. But when the second act of the play was over and he had not come, she began to think she was going to be disappointed.

“He has forgotten his engagement,” said Alexie.

“No, he could not find his dress-coat,” laughed Ralph.

“It is neither, for I saw him just now down there near the orchestra watching us. I beckoned him, and he dodged. The fact is, he is as bashful as a school-boy, and too timid, I suppose, to join us,” said Emmett.

A minute later he said to Italy:

“Look, I will point him out to you. You see that big man with the shock of blond curls and whiskers, and the broad shoulders?—Ralph, you’re right, he didn’t find his dress-coat—well, that is he. He’s looking at us now through those glasses.”

Italy looked, and saw the German looking at her through his opera-glasses.

A strange, unaccountable thrill shook her from head to foot.

“Oh, I feel so strangely!”—she half-shuddered and tried to laugh. “Oh, Mr. Harlow, your German hasn’t got the evil eye, I hope.”

“No, indeed; the prettiest blue-gray eyes in the world, only so near-sighted. Perhaps he will get ashamed of his shyness and come to us presently.”

From that moment Italy could see no one in the vast, fashionable throng except the broad shoulders and leonine hair and beard of the near-sighted German.

She kept watching him, and always with a strange and subtile thrill of blended pain and pleasure. Even when the curtain rose, and the peerless Bernhardt came on the stage again, her glance would wander to him.

“You seem to admire my German,” whispered Emmett, and Italy blushed vividly.

“I—oh, no—that is——” she began incoherently, then paused and said, with lovely frankness:

“I am interested in him, and I have just found out why. There is something about him that makes me think of—Francis Murray!”

The last word came with a sort of gasp.

“His broad shoulders, yes, and he is blond, too, like Mr. Murray,” returned Emmett. “And, do you know, I think if Doepkin would make the most of himself, he would make as rarely a handsome man as Francis Murray was. I say was; for, poor fellow, I begin to fear there can’t be any mistake in the report of his death.”

“Oh, don’t!” she half-sobbed. “I—I can’t bear to believe him dead, for I was with him, you know, and I feel—I feel as though I had killed him.”

He caught a repressed note of anguish in the clear young voice, and looked at her keenly.

A light broke in on his mind, a pang like a dagger-thrust stabbed his heart. By the light of his own love he read her guarded secret. No wonder he had wooed her in vain. Her heart belonged to noble, handsome Francis Murray.

The German professor was watching them both. As he saw them gazing into each other’s eyes he started violently:

“What! has she learned to love him, after all? Must I lose her—my love, my love?” he thought in sudden agony; and, rising impulsively, made his way to the box.

CHAPTER XXIV.

PROFESSOR DOEPKIN’S HEROISM.

Professor Doepkin opened the door of the box, and paused, his heart throbbing in a fashion quite strange for a staid German devoted to scientific researches.

Emmett Harlow looked around, and, quickly advancing, drew him forward, presenting him to each of the ladies in turn, making Italy the last one.

And he watched, with a keen, almost breathless, anxiety, the meeting between his German friend and his dark-eyed love. He was close enough to see that the man caught his breath, with a stifled gasp of emotion, before the beauty of the young girl.

She stood before him, a slender, stately creature, graceful as a young palm-tree, her dark head lifted with a staglike motion, her eyes beaming with a subtile fire. Her gown was of white, very soft and fine and clinging, with white chrysanthemums for the corsage-bouquet. On her bare throat and arms were strings of lustrous pearls clasped with diamonds, and a Grecian fillet, of the same pure jewels, bound the dark, curly locks to the proud young head. The pure white costume was a trying one, but the brilliancy of her coloring, the gleaming eyes, the coral lips, the sea-shell glow of her cheeks made an exquisite contrast.

The German’s blue-gray eyes gleamed beneath their disfiguring glasses with keen admiration, and he bowed low before the exquisite creature, who was murmuring, in a voice of flutelike melody:

“I have been wishing to know you ever since I first heard of you from Mr. Harlow.”

“I thank you,” he replied huskily, and in another moment found himself seated by her side in the chair that generous Emmett had vacated for his benefit.

But the curtain was rising, and Bernhardt, that incarnation of genius, was advancing across the stage. They gave her all their attention now, or at least they pretended to do so, but this newly introduced pair never lost for one moment the thrilling consciousness of each other’s presence.

At the meeting of their eyes an electric shock had seemed to thrill from heart to heart.

Italy could remember nothing like it except her first meeting with Francis Murray, when her heart had seemed for a moment to suspend its beating before the magnetic force of the man’s personality. She felt her face burning and her heart beating wildly at the German’s proximity, but the long lashes drooped to her cheeks, and she gazed steadily at the stage.

The German stole furtive glances at her while he seemed to be observing Madam Bernhardt’s grand conception of her part. Now and then he looked from her rather curiously at Mrs. Vale.

The marble pallor of the exquisite blonde face, with its frame of golden locks and its tragic, deep-blue eyes, had a sort of fascination for him.

“It is the face of a suffering angel,” he thought. “How could any one ever have believed her a murderess?”

He was deeply interested in all that had been told him of this woman, and when the curtain fell on the third act he addressed some trifling remark to her about the play, just to hear her speak.

She turned her dark-blue eyes on him and replied to him very pleasantly, for somehow she had been favorably impressed at first sight with Professor Doepkin.

Italy drew back a little and listened in silent pleasure to the sound of his low and well-trained voice whose cadences thrilled her heart with strange delight.

But suddenly he became aware that the others were listening to him with interest, and that moment he abruptly withdrew into himself as though overcome with shyness. Ralph and Emmett smiled at each other, and threw themselves into the breach, and the professor was extremely quiet all the rest of the time, but he kept his place at Italy’s side, and at the close of the play escorted her to the carriage and handed her in, even standing still a moment on the curbstone with a tender air to watch it roll away.

“The old chap is coming out finely. He will not forget his dress-coat the next time he is to join a theater-party with Miss Vale,” laughed Ralph Allen.

But the smitten German’s romance went even farther that night.

Long after the midnight hour had struck, and the streets of Boston were almost deserted, he paced the snowy street across the way from Italy’s home, and gazed with yearning eyes up at the darkened windows, wondering which curtained casement belonged to her, his peerless goddess.

Decidedly the professor was far gone, very far gone, on that road that every man travels once at least before he dies. All at once he seemed to realize it himself, and hurried abruptly away.

“Ach, I was really making a fool of myself,” he grunted. “What if any one had seen me? At my age, too!”

And he walked resolutely several blocks toward his boarding-house. All at once he stopped short and listened to the rising wind intently.

“Am I dreaming, or am I crazed?” he muttered. “Perhaps my head is wrong, for I fancied she was calling to me, praying me to return. It is the wind, I know, only the wind, but yet—I will go back!”

And, impatient at his own folly, he yet resolutely retraced his steps.

As he turned the corner nearest the house a man almost rushed past him, hurrying by in a sort of frenzied haste that made Professor Doepkin start and give him a keen look. The pedestrian dashed past and disappeared round the corner, and the German recoiled with an exclamation of amazement, as though in recognition.

The stranger was tall and slight, his figure muffled in a long fur-lined overcoat. A dark derby hat was drawn low over his brows, but the professor caught a glimpse of a pale, dark face with wild, gleaming dark eyes and mustached lips curved in a demoniac expression of terrible cruelty. Then he flashed past, and Doepkin hurried on, exclaiming:

“Percy Seabright! But what an expression! It was that of a madman!”

He turned the corner toward Mrs. Vale’s house, then suddenly he saw that the whole neighborhood was illuminated by a glare of light as bright as noonday. In another moment he saw fiery flames and smoke bursting out of the windows of Italy’s home, wrapping the whole house in a winding-sheet of flame.

A loud and prolonged shriek divided the shuddering midnight air.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

In an incredibly short space of time the street began to fill up with a shouting, gesticulating throng of human beings. The fire-bells rang, and soon the fire-engines came clattering upon the scene.

But the fire had gained such rapid headway that it was feared the inmates could not escape.

In the meantime Professor Doepkin had rushed to the rear of the house, trying to make an entrance. In vain, for the back of the building was a more solid mass of flame than the front.

People said afterward that there had never been the equal of Professor Doepkin’s splendid daring. He helped the firemen to batter in the front doors, and then, with a blanket over his head, rushed into the house and disappeared in the black smoke that filled the broad hallway.

“The fellow must be crazy! He will never come out alive!” declared the firemen unanimously.

But they were mistaken. After about ten minutes of keen suspense, while the engines played rapidly on the doomed building, he reappeared, staggering down the marble steps with a white, senseless figure in his arms.

Eager hearts went to his assistance, and the woman he had rescued was tenderly cared for; but when he had looked once on the fair face and streaming, golden hair he cried out wildly:

“My God!”

And before any one could prevent him, he rushed back into that holocaust of smoke and flame.

“Poor fellow! there is some one that he loves inside that house. He must have rescued the wrong one,” cried one compassionate person.

“He is a hero!” cried another.

“But he has lost his senses, or he would never have gone back. The roof will fall in before he gets out. When the experienced firemen will not enter a burning building, you may always know that there is great danger,” cried out another croaker.

And indeed no one could blame them. The house was wrapped in vivid flame, and the efforts of the firemen began to be directed to saving the adjacent buildings.

Suddenly a prolonged cheer from a thousand throats rent the midnight air.

The hero had emerged from the building again with another drooping white form clasped to his breast. And the eager crowd saw that this one was a very young girl, with dark, flowing curls and of wonderful beauty.

In a few more minutes the roof fell in on the doomed house.

The papers next day chronicled the distressing facts that three servants had perished in the fire. It was added that Mrs. Vale and her daughter had only been saved by unexampled heroism.

CHAPTER XXV.

ITALY’S CLUE.

The next day found Mrs. Vale and Italy tenderly cared for at the home of good Mrs. Mays.

Professor Doepkin had called a carriage and taken them there the night before, commending them to the care of the good landlady and beautiful Mrs. Severn, the sad-faced young widow.

Mrs. Vale was confined to her bed from the effects of severe nervous shock. Italy was up and about, although very pale and grave-looking, with the memory of last night. It seemed like a dream to her, the way she had awakened last night in the blinding smoke and glare, with the crackling of the flames in her ears, and the loud shouts of the excited throng outside blending with the pandemonium of noise.

She would never forget those few moments of awful anguish when she had realized the horror of her position, and, knowing herself caught like a rat in a trap, felt that escape was impossible, that she must die this awful death by fire. Then suddenly the door had been wrenched apart, and through the stifling smoke rang a familiar voice:

“Italy! Italy! Are you here? Speak!”

With a cry of joy, she moved toward the welcome voice, and through the awful heat and blinding smoke reached his arms that clutched her eagerly.

“Be brave. Fear nothing, for I will save you,” he cried, as he clasped her close, and a mighty flood of joy rolled over her even in the horror of the position. Then a sudden terror drove the blood coldly back upon her heart.

“Mama!” she shrieked.

“Is safe. I carried her out to the street ten minutes ago,” replied her rescuer, as he toiled through the corridor, and, reaching the stairway, began the descent, holding the blanket carefully over her head that not one hair of those dark, shining tresses should be scorched by the leaping flames that put out tongues of fire at them as they passed.

At last—after an eternity it seemed—he bore her into the street, and the fresh, cold air blew into her face like a breath from heaven.

She was safe, and not one hair of her head was harmed—safe, and there was her mother, too. Both owed their lives to this noble hero.

He with his face and hands almost blistered by the heat he had defied, his fair, curly beard and hair singed by the fire, had disappeared from sight as soon as he had put them in the care of Mrs. Mays, and the afternoon of another day had come, still he was missing.

Italy left her mother asleep and stole down to the parlor. It was just after luncheon.

Ralph Allen and Emmett Harlow were there reading. Mrs. Severn was at the window with a bit of sewing—a melancholy black figure with smileless lips and pallid cheeks, yet beautiful in a strange, haunting fashion that had tempted the young artist to ask her to set to him as “Niobe.”

She had refused gently but firmly, and their plan for winning her into the outside world had failed. She never crossed the threshold of her home. She was breaking her heart in silent grief for the dead.

“Where is Professor Doepkin? I wish to thank him for his bravery last night,” Italy said abruptly, and Emmett answered lightly:

“Pray do not attempt anything so rash. The professor is a very modest man—really bashful, I think—and he would be overwhelmed with confusion if you applauded his conduct last night.”

“I think you are jesting with me,” said the girl. “It would seem most ungrateful in me not to express my gratitude to this hero,” and her dark eyes kindled so fervently that Emmett sighed to himself:

“I wish I stood in the hero’s shoes. But never mind, my boy, you have done something to deserve her gratitude, after all, and some day she will know it and appreciate it, although it can never win for you that treasure—her love.”

“I wish very much to see him!” cried Italy almost yearningly.

“He is asleep, Italy, exhausted by his efforts last night,” said Ralph; and Emmett chimed in:

“If you are in a hurry to thank him, you may write a little note, for, really, I do not believe he will be willing to present himself before you for a week or so, as his personal appearance was seriously injured by getting his hair and whiskers singed last night. The handsome professor is very proud of his whiskers, and very likely he will not be visible until they grow again.”

“I fancy that he would be quite as handsome without his whiskers as with them,” Italy replied, with so significant a tone and glance that Emmett started, colored, and exclaimed:

“What do you mean?”

“Oh—nothing,” she answered, sitting down and taking up a newspaper; while Mrs. Severn said to her softly:

“The professor did sustain some painful burns on his hands, and his face is somewhat blistered, too. So he is keeping his room very quietly to-day—I think he quite understands all your gratitude without your expressing it.”

Italy thanked her with a smile, and just then Ralph Allen spoke:

“I am reading one of the most terrible tragedies ever printed or enacted.”

“The world is full of tragedies,” said Emmett Harlow. “What is this one, Ralph?”

“It is a story of love and insanity,” replied Ralph, and every one shuddered, while Mrs. Severn cried out eagerly:

“Read it, Mr. Allen.”

“It is too long—several columns of the New York World—so I will tell it to you in my own words. But it will sound very shocking to you ladies, for it is the story of one girl who murdered another one that she loved.”

“One that she loved—how could that be?” cried Emmett.

And Ralph answered:

“She was insane. But let me tell you the story:

“They were two beautiful young girls down South—let me see—yes, Memphis, Tennessee—and they loved each other devotedly and with such excess that Alice, the elder girl, declared she meant to marry the beautiful Freda that she loved so well. They wrote each other impassioned love-letters, and Alice was jealous of every one that admired her schoolmate, pretty Freda. The affair went on until Freda’s friends began to disapprove of it, and tried to break off the romantic, girlish intimacy. They parted them, and Alice almost went mad with despair. When she heard that Freda’s friends were going to remove her from the city she could not bear it. One day Alice was riding out in a buggy with Lillie, another friend of hers, and they saw Freda on the street with her sister and some friends.

“‘Let me get out one moment. I wish to bid Freda farewell,’ said Alice coolly.

“It all happened in a minute. Alice ran after Freda, threw her arms around her neck, drew back the lovely head, and in an instant had cut her friend’s throat. Freda fell dead on the pavement, and Alice flew back to the buggy and sprang in as coolly as if nothing had happened.”

“Horrible!” shuddered Emmett.

But the girls sat still, pallid, and with dilated eyes.

“Only think of it, she murdered her dearest friend, the girl she loved to madness!” cried Ralph. “But she was insane. At the trial she was proved insane, and the World tells here that she has been placed in a lunatic asylum for life. But how pale you ladies look! I ought not to have told you this awful story, especially after Italy’s shock last night. It is too much for her nerves——Italy!”

He ran to her assistance, for her face had whitened to the hue of death, and she was slipping inertly from her chair down to the floor.

Italy had indeed fainted, but it was not so much from the shock of hearing of that strange tragedy as from the awful and startling suspicion it had put into her mind.

Mrs. Severn quickly brought restoratives, and presently the young girl sat up, looking about with dazed, wondering eyes, while Ralph murmured contritely:

“Forgive me for telling that tragic story. I had forgotten that you were nervous from last night.”

A light of remembrance leaped into her eyes, and she faltered:

“You were very kind—that is, it was very interesting. I should like to read it in the papers, please.”

In some surprise, he placed it in her hand.

“I must return to mama now, I think,” she murmured, and hurried from the room.

Mrs. Vale was still sleeping calmly and sweetly, and Italy turned from the bed with wild excitement.

“We have all been blind—blind!” she ejaculated. “Only to think how that man has fooled us all! What was that gleam I saw sometimes in those strange, glittering eyes of his? It was madness, I feel sure of it now. It is he—my father’s dearest friend, as they called him—who murdered my father. I must send for Mr. Gardner. I must tell him all my suspicions.”

She went out and sent the message for the lawyer, then returned to the room and read and reread the revolting story, of that crime far away in the sunny southland where one beautiful young girl had murdered another one through insane love and jealousy.

“It is the clue I needed, the key to the mystery of my father’s murder, but, oh, can I prove it? How cunningly the fiend has drawn the network of safety around himself, while he blackened my mother’s fame and then threw his crime on the innocent shoulders of Francis Murray. Oh, could my father have loved this wretch? Did he ever suspect aught of his treachery? What was written in that missing diary that my father guarded so jealously from every eye? Where is it now? Oh, I would give the world to know!”

Mr. Gardner’s presence was announced at that moment, and she hurried down, to find him awaiting her in the little parlor quite alone.

“Read this. Do not ask me why, but read it,” she cried, thrusting the World into his hand.

The lawyer adjusted his glasses and read, while she paced impatiently up and down like some beautiful caged creature.

“Well?” he asked, laying the paper down.

She paused in front of him, the incarnation of wild emotion, trembling, her eyes glowing like stars.

“You have no clue yet?” she demanded hoarsely.

“None. I have never chanced upon a more baffling mystery.”

“You hold the key to it all in your hand,” she replied, with a gesture toward the paper.

“Explain,” he cried eagerly.

“Look you,” she said, “that girl was murdered by her dearest friend—mark you, her dearest friend! And my father, my poor father, met his death in the same fashion. The murderer is Percy Seabright!”

“Impossible! He could prove an alibi. He was in New York.”

“I do not believe it. Investigation might prove the falsity of the assertion. Let me tell you everything,” and she poured forth rapidly the facts her mother had told her on Christmas day.

“Mrs. Vale did not tell me any of these facts,” he said, with a sudden frown.

“She did not deem them of the least importance. It was merely by accident that she told me,” explained Italy.

“And yet they are really of the gravest importance. You did right to send for me. I am almost convinced that your theory is correct. I have thought Mr. Seabright strange at times. His manners, alternating from reckless gaiety to the deepest gloom, were not those of a well-balanced person. And his eyes, so dark, so glittering, I have sometimes thought there was something uncanny in them. You know he was a student of hypnotism, and I have seen him try to influence people with a cold, hard stare that made me nervous. Yes, now that you have thrown so much light on my darkness, I begin to suspect him. That diary you place so much stress on may be concealed in his country home. It will be quite easy for me to introduce some person into the house to search for it.”

“Pray do so. I place all my hopes on the contents of that diary.”

“You are sanguine. It will never be found, I fear. But we will try to trap our game without it. But be wary, Italy. Keep your suspicions to yourself, lest he escape us. He must be watched every step now. Ah! I have just thought of his marriage. You know it takes place in January, and he sails for Europe on his bridal-tour. He will outwit us.”

There was dismay in his voice and face.

“You have a week to work in!” she exclaimed.

“Too short, my child. Ah, if only it could be postponed! Indeed, it ought to be, for, although I don’t admire his fiancée, we ought not to let her wed such a monster as we may prove him to be.”

“Mrs. Dunn is no saint, sir,” Italy replied, with a curling lip of utter scorn.

She hesitated a moment, then said:

“Mr. Gardner, I believe I know a way to prevent the marriage at the eleventh hour, and, if necessary to the success of our plans, I will not hesitate to use my power. But I will not do so yet. If all else fails, send me a note the last day, and I think I can prevent the bridal-tour and keep him here.”

He looked at her a little curiously, but she shook her head, and said:

“It would not be right for me to explain, for it would involve the betrayal of another’s secret. I wish to avoid that, if possible, and nothing would tempt me to reveal it unless in the event of peril to myself from keeping it!”

He left her; but one week later, on the very day of the bridal, there came to her a little note that said simply:

“Get that marriage postponed, if you can. I have discovered too much to permit him to escape.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DESERTED BRIDE.

Ralph and Alexie had, some time before the wedding-day, entirely changed their plans for the bridal-trip.

They had decided that they did not care to cross the ocean in January, and a Southern town was decided on instead. Then they would return to occupy the beautiful home that was being built for them in Winthrop, and in the spring they would go abroad where Ralph’s parents were still sojourning.

But Mrs. Dunn adhered rigidly to the original plan. The great ambition of her life was to take rank as a society woman, and she believed that a European tour would confer upon her an enviable éclat. Nothing would have induced her to forego this great dream of her life, and the prospective bridegroom grimly resigned himself to the inevitable, although chafing in secret against his doom. But there was no retreat he knew. Mrs. Dunn held over his head like the sword of Damocles his guilty secret. He could not afford to risk its betrayal, so he was preparing to go like a lamb to the nuptial altar.

And now the final hour was at hand, and the bridal-train was entering the aisle of one of the most beautiful churches in Boston to the gay strains of the wedding-march.

Ralph Allen was as handsome as a picture, and Alexie was dazzling in satin and pearls and misty veil, all of lustrous white. In her train of bridemaids Italy came second to Alys—poor Alys, who was signally disappointed in her plan of making the third bride on this occasion.

Mrs. Dunn, in her character of a widow, did not wear pure white, but was elegantly robed in brocaded lavender silk and diamonds, with a point-lace veil obscuring her plump charms. She carried a bouquet of heliotrope and white japonica instead of orange flowers. Her bridegroom, dressed in the height of style, wore a bored expression, as if he wished the affair well over.

Every one was looking at the bridal-party, of course, or many would have seen that beautiful Italy was trembling as though under the stress of deep anxiety. They would have thought it but natural excitement over a wedding, but the cause lay deeper yet. She was in a fever of unrest and anxiety, and as she looked at the bared, handsome face of Percy Seabright, she thought to herself:

“He must surely have received the anonymous note. Is it possible that he calmly disregards it? Steeped to the lips in crime himself, he coolly disregards Mrs. Dunn’s sin, and will marry her just the same. Yet I have heard it said that the vilest men preferred good women!”

She could think of nothing but that in a few more hours Percy Seabright would be on the broad ocean, secure for months and months from the punishment for his guilt that she hoped to soon bring home to him. Over and over she asked herself:

“Did he receive the anonymous note? Can it be he has missed it by some strange fatality?”

Ralph had turned from the altar with blushing Alexie on his arm, the happiest young husband in the world.

The marriage-service was being solemnized now for Percy Seabright and Ione Dunn.

“Foiled!” Italy murmured to herself, and she could have fallen down in the midst of that perfumed throng of fashionables and cried out aloud in her despair. But she had to wear a mask of smiles over her keen defeat and congratulate the bridal couples. Yes, even Percy Seabright and his triumphant bride, although her lips were so stiff they could scarcely speak the words, and her little hand, even through her glove, was icy cold.

The bridal-party returned to Mrs. Dunn’s house for a short reception, and then traveling-dresses were donned and the carriages were driven away amid a shower of rice and good wishes. Percy Seabright and his bride drove rapidly to the great ocean steamer on which their passage had been taken.

Mrs. Seabright was all smiles and joy despite the moody cloud that lowered on Percy’s brow. She did not know that during the wedding reception a messenger-boy had brought him a letter marked “Important.” He led her into a saloon, then said quickly:

“Ione, dear, I must leave you here a moment while I go back on shore to speak to some one. You see, I have forgotten——” the rest of the words were inaudible in the babel of voices and noises that signalize a great steamer’s leaving her mooring to cross the broad Atlantic, but he left her side.

They were afloat, and a great cheer rose up from the shore. Mrs. Seabright looked anxiously around for her husband. In the great crowd of passengers she could not distinguish his form.

“My husband—oh, they have left him on shore!” she shrieked, in the wildest dismay.

Was there ever a more awkward contretemps? A bride starting on her wedding-journey alone far across the wide Atlantic! The passengers crowded around and offered their sympathy, assuring her that her husband would be certain to follow on the next steamer.

Somewhat propitiated by the attention she was receiving, the bride dried her tears and dwelt hopefully on the prospect of greeting her Percy on the other side within a few hours of her own landing. The captain even told her that if her husband sailed on the next steamer he had the probability of reaching there first, as it was celebrated for its speed. But when they had been only three days out the captain approached her with a letter in his hand, saying:

“A gentleman on shore gave me this letter for you just before we sailed, and asked me not to deliver it until to-day.”

“A letter for me!” and Mrs. Seabright’s heart gave an excited thump against her side as she took it from the captain’s hand and sank nervously into a steamer-chair before she opened it.

It was a little odd receiving a letter in this fashion. It startled her for a moment, then she took courage and tore it open. And the contents startled her still more.

The beautiful chirography was that of her new-made husband, and ran this way:

“Madam: I fear it seems discourteous to leave you to pursue your wedding-journey alone, but it would do the greatest violence to my feelings to accompany you.

“Although I am not a model man myself, I have a prejudice in favor of good women that makes it impossible I should live with you. You forced me into this marriage, so I consider myself entirely justifiable in deserting you.

“Your boasted power over me is at an end, as I am informed of a crime you have committed that quite equals, if not transcends, mine, since mine was unsuccessful, and yours did not fail.

“Briefly, then, while I was absent last August, a friend of mine was murdered in my country house by a shot fired through the window, as he was about to embrace a young girl. His name was Harold Severn, and the mystery of his fate has never been solved, as his body was afterward placed in the river by persons, no doubt, who wished it out of the house.

“But there is one person who knows how Harold Severn was killed. The murderess was seen at the window as she dropped the pistol, and—recognized as Mrs. Dunn! The witness of your crime has mercifully spared you, but felt impelled to inform me, in order to save me from marrying you. Unfortunately the letter came too late, but in time at least to give me this signal triumph over you.

“I confess I am filled with wonder over your reasons for killing Harold Severn. Can it be he was secretly your lover, and you were jealous of his fair companion? And who on earth was the girl, anyway? I mean to trace her out.

“Fair Ione, we are quits. You hold a dangerous secret of mine and I hold a yet more fatal one of yours. You understand that we will have to mutually respect these secrets.

“Adieu, madam, and bon voyage.

“Percy Seabright.”

She sat there on the cold, wind-swept deck, reading that letter as if turned to stone, her face dead-white, her peculiar eyes a-glitter with greenish fire. The blue and sunny sky, the blue and rippling sea all seemed to blend into a broad, dark canvas, on which was painted in great black letters that all the world was reading:

“Deserted!—deserted in the first hour of your marriage!”

And she had loved this man—loved him as wildly as was possible to one of her cruel and selfish nature. In that love lay the deepest sting of her shame.

Her first husband she had never loved. She had married him for his money and played him false. A divorce had followed, and she had left her far-off home to escape the odium that settled on her name.

In Boston she called herself a widow, and here she after a while became acquainted with Percy Seabright. The man was a miserable flirt and a born actor. He could assume any rôle.

So Mrs. Dunn had fallen under the spell of the traitor, and put forth all her powers to win him. He was rich, or she believed so, at least, but she thought more of him, for a wonder, than of his supposed wealth. From the first hour of their meeting she had thrown herself at his head, and she hated with a jealous, murderous hatred every other woman of his acquaintance. She pursued them with all the animosity of an unscrupulous and vindictive nature, telling falsehoods on them, and placing them in the worst light before his eyes. At length she rejoiced in becoming his betrothed, little dreaming that a score of other women were holding the same position toward him, and that the arch-villain was laughing at them all, and secretly holding them up to the derision of his friends.

But later on, when she discovered all this, it did not cool the fever of her passion. She determined that he should be her husband, and for the sake of this heartless fiend even committed murder, staining her already guilty soul with a sin that would doom it to perdition. And what had all this devotion availed?

Nothing! He had had no mercy on her, deserting her as coolly as he would have thrown aside a soiled glove. A sudden glare leaped into her eyes, and she thought:

“I will spring into the ocean, and thus forever bury my torturing humiliation.”

She started forward, then recoiled as her hand touched the steamer-rail. The glitter of her eyes, the expression of her face were terrible.

“No, I will live—live for revenge!” she hissed, in an undertone of savage fury.

CHAPTER XXVII.

IN ITALY’S POWER.

Mrs. Vale was still too ill to attend Alexie’s marriage, so she had entrusted Italy to Emmett Harlow’s care. When the carriage turned back from the station where they had been to see the bridal pair off on their wedding-tour, the young girl said:

“Let us drive to Mr. Gardner’s house. I must see him at once on business of great importance.”

“Willingly,” replied Emmett, who knew much more than she supposed of the affair which was taking her to the lawyer.

The Vales and the Gardners were on a very friendly footing now. Mrs. Gardner was a charming woman, and had assiduously cultivated the friendship of the Vales. No arguments would have made her believe Italy’s mother a guilty woman. And she admired, above all things, the beautiful, brave girl who had undertaken what her husband believed to be such a Quixotic quest.

So when Italy and Mr. Harlow were announced, Mrs. Gardner rose to greet them with beaming smiles of welcome.

Italy glided in, a vision of beauty in her snowy bridemaid’s gown, her long wrap of rich golden-hued brocade bordered with fur, falling back from her shoulders, giving a glimpse of rosy-white throat and arms escaping from “lace like the hoar-frost, fine and thin.”

“You beauty!” cried Mrs. Gardner, embracing her fondly and holding her so long in a close clasp that Mr. Gardner cried out humorously:

“Aren’t you going to let me speak to Italy?”

While he was shaking her cold little hand she saw over his shoulder another form, tall, broad-shouldered, blond; her heart gave a strangling leap of keen emotion. It was Professor Doepkin, whom she had never met since the night he had saved her life. He had been absent from his boarding-house ever since—on business, Emmett said.

When the German saw that beautiful vision in the center of the room he rose up with a decidedly sheepish air and stood back of the lawyer, waiting his turn to greet beauteous Italy. In a minute she had dropped Mr. Gardner’s hand and pushed resolutely past him.

“Professor Doepkin—oh, what a delightful surprise! You are the person I have been dying to see for a whole week!” she cried out eagerly, earnestly, and with just a soupçon of raillery in her tone.

Both of her beautiful hands were outstretched to him so frankly that he was compelled to take them in his and mutter something, he was not conscious what, in his surprise, and she went on softly in that voice like sweetest music.

“Oh, how can I thank you for that night? We are so grateful to you, mama and I! We owe you our lives. People have told me how brave you were, what a terrible risk you ran! And we were strangers to you, too. Oh, sir, you are a hero!”

“It was a trifling risk, and it was well repaid by my pleasure in saving two precious lives. Please say no more about it, Miss Vale,” returned the German, in perfect English, although a trifle huskily, and dropping her hands, for she had left them in his, while her glorious eyes beamed on his with a look that made him long to gather her to his heart and crush all that beauty and sweetness passionately in his yearning arms. But he fought the temptation, and drew back a little stiffly to hand her a chair.

“Pray have this seat, Miss Vale.”

She flashed him a look of deep reproach and turned her back on him with sudden scorn.

“Mr. Gardner, I wished to see you—alone,” she said, a little bruskly.

“Certainly, my dear; we will go to the library. You will excuse us, friends.”

In the library, her face lost the brightness that had flashed into it at sight of the German, and grew pale and troubled.

“Oh, sir, my scheme failed utterly. Percy Seabright married Mrs. Dunn, and sailed for Europe with her afterward.”

His face reflected the chagrin of her own.

“Could he have received your note?”

“I cannot tell. The messenger was well paid to deliver it promptly, and to return and inform me how he received it, but he never came back.”

“He deceived you, probably, although there is a possibility that Seabright might have gone on, and married her after—all. There are some men, you know, who actually admire a woman with a soupçon of the devil in her. I think he did, and thus we are foiled. But take heart, child. He will return, and, after all, it may be easier to work on our clues in his absence, for as yet we have nothing to serve as a basis for an arrest.”

She paced up and down the room, chafing with impatience.

“And what of the spy you placed in his house to search for the diary? Was there no success?”

“None. Yet he searched carefully every room in the house but one.”

“And why not that one?”

“He could not gain access to it. The housekeeper had it locked always, by her master’s orders, and it was further guarded by being situated so peculiarly that it could only be entered by going through the housekeeper’s room. She said it was nothing but a closet with some old trunks in it, but her close watch over it proved that there was something more important.”

Her eyes flashed with eagerness.

“Oh, if only I could get into that house!” she cried.

“Impossible, Italy. It is no place for a young girl. There would be danger in the very air.”

He saw her face whiten, but he dreamed not at what terrible recollection, and continued:

“No really respectable woman would even enter Percy Seabright’s bachelor home. It is a sort of club-house for his intimate friends, and I think they sometimes take women there—second-rate dancers, singers, and actresses who are reckless of their reputations. To these they give suppers and wine-parties. You see how it is, Italy.”

“Yes, Mr. Gardner, and it makes me frantic. I am so sure that a woman would succeed where a man would fail.”

“But, my child, I sent a female detective when my man failed. Even she was no match for the caution of Mrs. Smith, the wary housekeeper, who guards the hidden room.”

She made a gesture of despair, and tore up and down the room like some wild caged thing, her long white silk train sweeping behind her on the thick carpet, her jewels flashing, and the old lawyer watched her with yearning sympathy. He longed to help her, but fate seemed to baffle him at every turn.

Suddenly she paused before him with a queenly air, and cried out impetuously:

“Mr. Gardner, I swear to you I believe that if I could stand in the presence of that woman, that housekeeper, I could force her to deliver me the key of the room she guards so jealously.”

“Are you mad, child?”

“No, Mr. Gardner, only desperate with baffled energy. Oh, come, you and your wife, with me to that house, and let me try. Surely there would be no danger for me then! Oh, come, come! My carriage waits. We can leave Mr. Harlow here till our return.”

Something in her face and voice compelled him to accede.

“Wait here, and I will bring my wife,” he said, hastening away, and, on returning, he had his wife’s consent.

Directly the three entered the carriage and were driven rapidly to Percy Seabright’s secluded home.

Mrs. Gardner had taken the precaution to wrap Italy and herself in long, dark-hooded cloaks, with veils, so that there was no chance of recognition. Thus equipped, they entered the house when the door was opened to them at Mr. Gardner’s summons with the bell. They were shown to the parlor that Italy remembered so well, with the portrait of Percy Seabright smiling from the wall.

A deadly sickness seized Italy the moment that she entered the room that had been the scene of such a fateful tragedy.

“You are trembling, Italy. You should not have come here,” cried Mrs. Gardner, fearing she would faint. But the girl answered huskily:

“Do not fear for me; I am excited, that is all.”

They had sent for Mrs. Smith, and at this moment she entered elaborately dressed, and gazing in surprise at her elderly visitor and his two veiled companions.

Mr. Gardner rose and said stiffly:

“Mrs. Smith, this young lady wishes to see you alone a few minutes. Can you take her to any room close by?”

“Certainly, sir.”

But the woman looked her vast surprise as Italy’s veiled figure rose up to follow. She opened a door to the right.

“We can go into the library,” she said.

Italy went with her, and the door closed. Then the girl threw back her veil, disclosing her beautiful, pallid face.

“Do you remember me?” she asked nervously.

The woman started wildly.

“So you are alive?” she cried, in a voice of keen relief. “Oh, how often I have wondered over your fate since that night when you disappeared so strangely from this house!”

“Oh, tell me of that night!” cried Italy tremulously. “It is all a blank to me from the minute I fell down senseless after witnessing the murder of Harold Severn, until I was rudely awakened by a policeman at dead of night, wandering about the streets of Boston clad only in a thin night-dress.”

“Oh, then you must have got up and gone away in your sleep. I always thought that must have been the way of it. It did not look like any one would have carried you off like that!”

And while Italy listened eagerly she continued:

“You were unconscious so long that I carried you to my own room, undressed you, and put you to bed. Presently you roused up in a dazed sort of way, and I gave you a very light sedative and you fell asleep like a tired child. So I left you and went back down-stairs, for, of course, I was frightened to death at what had happened, and did not want a sensation in the house over a murder. With the help of a trusty servant, I got the body safely out of the house, and we took it to the river and threw it in. Then, returning, we took up the parlor carpet, and hurriedly removed all traces of the crime. Then I went up-stairs again to see after you. To my horror, you were gone in your night-dress, leaving your clothing all there.”

“I am at times a somnambulist. I must have gone away in my sleep and walked the long distance to Boston without waking,” explained Italy.

“Yes, that must have been the way. I often wandered what became of you, and, oh, I was so thankful you did not betray what had happened and send the police here!” cried Mrs. Smith.

“I ought to have done so,” answered Italy sternly. Then her voice grew tremulous as she asked:

“You did not think I committed the murder, did you?”

“Laws, no, miss, for to tell you the truth, I saw it done myself.”

“You?” cried Italy, in wonder; and the housekeeper replied:

“Yes, miss; to tell the truth, I was peeping through that keyhole there into the very room where you were, and I saw a woman’s face at the window, saw her raise a pistol and fire. I rushed into the room. There lay Mr. Severn dead, and you in a faint.”

“Did you know the woman?”

“No, miss; she was a perfect stranger to me, although I would be sure to know her face if I ever saw it again.”

“What if I tell you that your master, Mr. Seabright, married that murderess to-night?”

“Oh, miss, I could not believe you!”

“But it is true. I recognized her face, and it was Mrs. Dunn. But I kept silence, because I thought she did it to save me from that villain.”

“Oh, I wish my master had known it. He never would have married that wicked woman.”

“Your master is very wicked himself. It is because of some suspected villainy of his that I am here to-night,” answered Italy, coming suddenly to the point, and before Mrs. Smith could remonstrate, she continued:

“You are in my power, Mrs. Smith, for the widow of Harold Severn has offered a large reward for information that would lead to the discovery of her husband’s murderer. If I should tell her what I know, it would bring you and your doings into terrible notoriety. Remember, you acted a very dishonorable part, claiming to be Mrs. Gardner, a very well-known Boston lady.”

“Oh, miss, I did wrong. For God’s sake don’t expose me!” whined the housekeeper, falling abjectly on her knees before her accuser.

“Upon only one condition will I spare you,” Italy answered sternly.

“Oh, miss, if there is anything I can do for you?”

“There is one very simple thing,” Italy told her; adding:

“In this house Percy Seabright has one locked room of which you keep the key. Give me admission to that room, let me search for something that is hidden there, and whether I find it or not, your secret shall be safe with me!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. VALE IS VINDICATED.

The housekeeper’s face grew lividly pale at these words.

“Oh, miss, you don’t know what you’re asking. Mr. Seabright would kill me!”

“Your master is on the sea now, and will not return for many months. He need never know.”

“But indeed, miss, there’s nothing of interest in the room—only rubbish. Please ask me something else to do for you.”

“It is this, or nothing. And if you refuse, this house will be reported to the police as a gambling-den. It will be raided and searched!”

Mrs. Smith read deadly earnest in the pale, stern young face. She rose up, shuddering:

“Will you promise me one thing if I let you have the key?” she asked wildly. “You will go in alone, and never tell what you saw in there? Oh, heavens, it would ruin my poor master! And I promised his mother on her dying bed to look after her son, to shield his secret from the world!”

The woman wrung her hands in a sort of impotent despair. Her terror only made Italy more anxious.

“Yes, I will go in alone, and I will promise not to reveal anything you don’t wish me to,” she cried. “I will tell you the truth, Mrs. Smith. I simply want to find a little book that I believe Mr. Seabright has hidden away. It belongs to my mother, and she wants it very much.”

“Oh, if that is all,” began the woman, “perhaps I can find it for you. What is the title?”

“I must search for it myself,” the girl answered resolutely, and, with a long-drawn sigh, the woman yielded the point.

“Come, then,” she said abruptly, and, after returning a moment to her friends in the parlor, Italy followed her up-stairs to her own room. She was trembling with excitement. She felt herself on the eve of a terrible discovery of some sort.

Mrs. Smith went to a secrétaire in her room, pushed back what seemed to be a hidden or secret drawer, and took out a brass key. With this she unlocked a door across the room and left Italy a moment, saying:

“Wait till I light the gas.”

She carried in a step-ladder and lighted a gas-jet near up to the ceiling, then came back and said with sullen acquiescence:

“You may come in now.”

And with a wildly throbbing heart Italy stepped over the threshold of the mysterious chamber.

Mrs. Smith quickly closed the door, and they were alone together.

Italy raised her eyes and gazed curiously around her. The next moment a cry of startled comprehension escaped her lips:

“I was right. Percy Seabright is a maniac!”

The room in which she stood was one of those small padded chambers used to imprison the violently insane to prevent them from injuring themselves in their paroxysms of madness. It was devoid of furniture with the exception of a large cushioned chair that stood before a small secrétaire similar to the one in Mrs. Smith’s room. This was piled with a quantity of dilapidated-looking books, from all of which the backs had been stripped.

“Percy Seabright is a maniac!” repeated Italy, and Mrs. Smith cried out remonstratingly:

“Oh, no, Miss Vale, you’re quite mistaken. The room was like this when he bought the house. The former owner had an insane wife that he kept in here.”

Italy did not take the trouble to tell the woman that she was speaking falsely. She was eagerly turning over the books, and pulling open the little drawers in search of the diary. She looked around at the woman.

“There must be a secret drawer in this secrétaire, the same as in yours. Open it,” she commanded.

Mrs. Smith touched a hidden spring, and a little drawer shot out instantly. Lying in it was a small book bound in dark velvet, clasped in gold, and lettered in gilt: “Diary.”

At that moment the peal of the door-bell resounded loudly through the house. Mrs. Smith gave a violent start.

“Heavens, what does that mean? I must go instantly. Miss Vale, you cannot leave for a moment or two until I return. Will you have the goodness to lock yourself into this room until I return?”

“I warn you not to attempt any treachery toward me, madam. My friends are here, remember,” Italy said warningly.

“I swear I mean you no harm. I am frightened for your safety, that is all. But I must go and see about that new arrival,” and she darted out, leaving the girl alone. Italy sprang to follow, but Mrs. Smith was too quick. The door slammed, the key clicked in the lock on the other side. She was a prisoner. For a moment her heart stood still with terror. Then reason came to her aid.

“She will have to release me presently. My friends will not leave the house without me.”

She flew back to the open drawer of the secrétaire, snatched up the diary, and sank tremblingly into the cushioned chair. Alas! the golden clasp of the book was locked, and the key missing.

She remembered with a thrill of horror that she had seen among the trinkets on Percy Seabright’s watch-chain a tiny golden key. He had laughingly told Alys Audenreid, when she asked about it, that it was the key to a mystery.

“It is the key to Aunt Ione’s locked bracelet, I think,” returned Alys, and though he had denied it no one believed it.

But now Italy guessed at the fatal truth. It was the key to the diary, and he had carried it away with him across the ocean. Desperate with impatience, she tugged at the lock, pulling with all the strength of her little hands. The rivets on one side of the clasp yielded, the side of it flew loose, the book opened its closely written pages to her eager eyes.

On the flyleaf she read, in her father’s writing, his name, Ronald Vale. And then a low groan of horror came from her livid lips.

She had identified the missing diary not only by her father’s name, but by gruesome spots here and there on the pages—spots that looked like red rust, but that she guessed too truly were her father’s blood.

“The diary was lying by your father’s elbow when I parted from him. It must have been there when he was murdered,” her mother had said to her more than once.

She shuddered all over and looked at her white fingers as though she expected to see stains of blood on their fairness, then she opened the book and began to read at random the paragraphs that caught her eyes.

Among the first entries, mention was made of Ronald Vale’s first meeting with, and growing friendship for, the man who had proved his fate.

“We are congenial souls—brothers,” wrote Ronald Vale. “I did not believe it was possible to love a man as fondly as I love Percy Seabright. He is a most charming companion, bright, witty, intellectual. He has been everywhere, although still so very young; he has read everything; he is a poet in feeling, and a gifted amateur actor. But I own he has one fault: He is continually boasting of his conquests over women, and to listen to Percy, one might believe that every woman of his acquaintance, married and single, is in love with him.

“He is fascinating, I know, but I think his vanity misleads him. He mistakes kindness for love. In fact, a very beautiful young girl told me recently that she detested Mr. Seabright from the first minute she saw him, and that he made her think of a serpent. I would not tell him this for anything, for I can fancy how those bright, dark eyes would flash with anger at the thought that any woman did not admire him.

“We are planning a tour of Europe together, and sail next week. I am quite sure that my dear brother, as Percy makes me call him, will be a very charming traveling-companion.”

Italy was trembling so violently that the pages slipped from under the little finger that held them down and she lost the place where she was reading.

She opened it again farther on, and at the very top of the page this entry stared her in the face:

“London, Eng., Aug. 25th, 18—. I have made a shocking discovery that has almost prostrated me. My dear friend Percy is mentally unbalanced.”

A cry of wonder came from Italy’s lips:

“So papa really knew it, then! Yet all this time the world has been in ignorance of this secret!”

She read on with eager eyes the continuation of the diary:

“It is dreadful, dreadful! Percy is possessed of a suicidal mania. Three times since we came abroad he has attempted to end his own life, and but for my vigilance would now be dead. I am miserable over him. The story of this trip abroad is as weird and strange as a romance. The doctors tell me I must take him home, and——”

“Oh,” cried Italy, looking up, with a start, from her reading, for the key had clicked in the lock, and the door opened.

She looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Smith, but the next moment she sprang from her seat with an uncontrollable shriek of fear. It was not the housekeeper, it was her master, Percy Seabright, and when he saw Italy Vale sitting there reading her father’s diary, a shriek of maniacal fury burst from his lips, and he sprang forward, clutching her throat in a grasp of steel.

Italy had no suspicion as to the cause of the wild alarm that had made Mrs. Smith leave her so suddenly and lock her into the padded chamber. But the woman was trembling with terror as she hurried down the stairs to the front door. That clamorous peal of the door-bell had told her more than Italy dreamed.

Mrs. Smith knew by the very sound that only the hand of her master, Percy Seabright, had set that bell in motion. She had supposed him safe upon the ocean, but here he was returning—why? Wild with alarm, anxious for the safety of the girl up-stairs, the housekeeper presented herself at the door and admitted her master.

“Oh, sir, why is this? I thought you had started on your wedding-journey!” she cried.

“The steamer sailed without me, Elizabeth. I came on shore to speak to a friend, and she started off without me. Ha, ha! isn’t it amusing to think of my bride going off on her wedding-tour alone?” he laughed wildly.

“Oh, it is dreadful! But you will follow on the next steamer, of course?”

“No!” cried Percy Seabright, with a strange, hoarse laugh that almost curdled her blood. “No, I came straight home again, for——Elizabeth, my good old soul, I feel I’m going to be sick—to have one of my horrid spells. And then no one could care for me but you.”

His dark eyes, that could be so soft and tender in expression, were wild and glaring, his lips were twitching nervously, the whole expression of his face filled her with dim alarm. She put out a hand to stay him, but he pushed past her, exclaiming:

“I must go at once to my room.”

He rushed past her, pushing back her feeble, detaining hands, and mounted the stairs, the woman following at his heels, wild with terror at his furious mood.

“Oh, sir, wait—wait! You must not go into my room yet!” she cried hoarsely, and plucked at the skirt of his coat to draw him back.

It was a fatal move on her part. He kicked back at her with furious impatience. The blow struck her full in the breast. Never before had he been unkind to the woman who was so devoted to his interests. A frenzy must have possessed him. There was a moan of pain and terror, then the woman reeled backward, throwing out her arms in a vain attempt to clutch the balustrade, and fell headlong down the stairway, striking the polished oaken floor with awful force. Then she lay there motionless as a log.

The noise penetrated the parlor. There rushed out the lawyer and his wife followed by two others—Professor Doepkin and Emmett Harlow. They had followed the others by secret arrangement with Mr. Gardner, and were impatiently awaiting the return of Italy.

They rushed out at sound of the heavy fall, and found the housekeeper lying there like one dead. At the same moment the female servants rushed into the hall.

“She has fallen down the stairs and killed herself!” shrieked both in concert.

But when they turned her over she groaned heavily.

“No, she was only stunned. Bring water quickly,” cried Mr. Gardner.

They laved her face and hands, and presently her closed eyes opened, and she moaned wildly:

“To my room, my own room!”

“She wants to be carried to her room. I’ll lead the way,” cried one of the maids.

Professor Doepkin and Emmett Harlow carried the heavy woman up the stairway to her room. As they laid her on her bed, she pointed, with upraised hands, to the door across the room.

“In there! in there! Save—the—girl!” she gurgled, with a terrible effort; then her head fell back, blood gushed from her mouth.

Professor Doepkin was the first to reach the closed door. He flung it open, for Percy Seabright, in his surprise and fury, had forgotten to lock it.

What a sight met his appalled gaze!

The padded cell of a dangerous lunatic, and upon the floor struggling in the grasp of a murderous demon whose talonlike fingers clutched her throat so that she could not utter a sound, lay Italy Vale!

With his knee on her breast and his hands on her throat, the demon’s face was horrible in its savage fury. Low, hissing sounds of hate came from his foam-flecked lips.

With a cry of horror, the German flung himself upon the maniac. Emmett Harlow and Mr. Gardner also flew to the rescue, while the maids left their task of wiping the blood from Mrs. Smith’s lips to shriek aloud in consternation.

Percy Seabright, in his paroxysm of madness, seemed endowed with the strength of a dozen men. But after a violent struggle he was overpowered and bound securely, for his ungovernable fury could be restrained in no other way. Then Italy was lifted up and carried tenderly into the next room.

“She is dead! That devil has killed her!” shrieked Mrs. Gardner, as she beheld Italy’s face and throat all crimson and purple from the pressure of Percy Seabright’s cruel hands.

The girl lay without breath or motion, and a horrible fear seized upon all that she was indeed dead. Mrs. Gardner’s sobs filled the room.

A physician was hastily summoned; then Mrs. Smith, who looked like one dying, moaned feebly:

“My master’s dread secret is known to the world at last! Oh, my poor boy, let me go to him! Those cruel ropes are cutting his flesh.”

Through the open door she could see him lying on the floor bound hand and foot and raving wildly. Though he had injured her so cruelly, her heart yearned over him, and she held out her arms.

“Oh, let me go to him, poor boy, for he has never been so bad as this before. He pushed me down the stairs when I tried to hold him back, but it is the first time he ever was cruel to me! He did not know what he was doing, my poor Percy! Oh, gentlemen, don’t be hard on him. I was his mother’s servant, and I’ve known him since he was a little boy. He was a sweet child, little Percy, only when those dreadful temper-fits came on. And they grew worse and worse as he grew older. Then, in his bright youth, when the girl he loved jilted him, he went melancholy-mad and tried to kill himself.

“That was the beginning of those awful spells, and they thought it was from the drugs. And we tended him so carefully that no one ever knew anything. His mother bought this house and had that room prepared. He could always tell when these strange fits were coming on. His head would hurt and he would have fainting spells. Then he would come to us and we would fasten him in there and keep him from suicide until he got well again. For he always wanted to kill himself, though the doctor said his mood might change, and it would be some one else he wanted to kill. Oh, his dying mother left him to me. I promised—promised——”

She choked again with blood, and fell back, struggling for breath.

“Elizabeth!” came faintly from the other room. Her voice had penetrated his heart. It was a maniacal moan, infinitely pathetic.

They wiped the blood from her mouth, and she raised herself up in bed.

“I’m better,” she moaned, slipping out to the floor. “He wants me to put his strait-jacket on, and lock him in there alone. Then he will get over it in a day or two. He always does.”

They were surprised, but they let her have her way. All their thoughts were for Italy, lying there like one dead, with the edge of the fatal diary peeping from her corsage, where she had hastily thrust it when confronted by Percy Seabright.

Professor Doepkin and the others hung over her in yearning devotion, laving her face and hands with cooling waters, and at last a faint heave of her breast betrayed the joyful fact that life was returning. They knew that consciousness was returning when she moved one weak little hand and pressed it on her breast, where the diary lay under her corsage.

“She remembers it first, and no wonder. She has almost lost her life to secure it,” sobbed Mrs. Gardner.

The physician came presently, and soon afterward Italy was removed to her home. He said it was best for her to be taken away from the scene. Mrs. Gardner and her husband went with her, and Emmett Harlow and the German remained to guard as a prisoner the man who was at that moment raving with maniacal fury in his bonds. He would never go free again to menace humanity with his dangerous liberty. He was detected now, and when Italy grew better in the next few days she resumed the reading of the diary that was destined to throw such clear light on the awful tragedy of her father’s death. And when she had finished the reading she flung herself, in a burst of anguish, at her mother’s feet.

“Oh, mama, mama, that fiend, that demon killed my father for a jealous fancy—a slighted love! Oh, how horrible it is! how horrible! But you are cleared, my dearest one, my martyred angel!”

CHAPTER XXIX.

LOVE TURNED TO HATE.

Three weeks had passed away, and the day of Percy Seabright’s trial had arrived. It had been postponed that long on account of the serious illness of Mrs. Smith, who was expected to be one of the principal witnesses for the defense, as they had decided to set up insanity as their plea.

Percy Seabright had entirely recovered from his paroxysm, and seemed quite sane again, but he was kept a close prisoner in the padded room, the authorities having detailed special guards to prevent his escape.

Mrs. Smith, in spite of a fictitious energy, was very low. She had sustained severe injuries in her breast, and coughed up blood daily. She would never be strong again, and her physician foreboded her sudden death by severe hemorrhage.

It almost broke the faithful old creature’s heart when she learned that her master was to be tried on a charge of murder—murdering his dearest friend, Ronald Vale. She declared that it could not be true.

When they told her that the confession of the crime had been written down in the stolen diary of the murdered man by Percy Seabright’s own hand, she was still obstinate. She could not credit the statement, she said, unless they let her read it with her own eyes.

They were afraid to trust her with it, fearing that devotion to her master would lead her to attempt the destruction of the book.

She was informed that portions of the diary would be read at the trial. And so the fateful day had arrived, and within the next hour throngs would be wending their way to the court-room to listen to one of the most sensational trials ever heard in Boston—a trial that was to dissipate the dark shadow of crime and disgrace from innocent lives, and fix it indelibly upon the real criminal.

Popular interest ran high, and the beautiful Mrs. Vale was regarded as a suffering angel. As for her daughter, brave Italy, she was the heroine of the hour. Had she not believed in her mother and done valiant battle with public opinion until she had unearthed the cunning, hidden criminal? Why, it was a deed worthy of all praise, all honor. At last she had made good her proud boast to the lawyer.

A few more hours or days and the hideous crime would be brought home to the criminal, and the world would be ringing with the story of the traitor’s deeds—the vile wretch whose murderous hand had struck down the friend he loved—and punishment would be meted out to him—such punishment as may dwell in a maniac’s horror-haunted cell.

Italy was thinking of all this as she sat alone in Mrs. Mays’ bright little parlor that morning just an hour before the trial—thinking of what she had accomplished by the force of an unbending will. There was a sad vein blending with the thoughts of her victory. Deep in her brave, true heart lay a love as strong and enduring as life itself, and this love was cruelly wounded and pained.

“Does he think that I am blind? Oh, why does he not speak?” she thought bitterly. “Ah, once I thought he loved me, but it was the maddest mistake of my whole life. Dear Heaven, how shall I bear it, this torturing pain of hopeless love?”

Burning tears sparkled into the beautiful, sad, dark eyes, and she murmured:

“I will call pride to my aid, and he shall never know the pain I suffer from his cold indifference!”

At that moment the door opened softly, and Emmett Harlow entered the parlor. His handsome boyish face was eager and agitated, and in his hand he carried a letter with a foreign postmark.

“Oh, Italy, such news!” he cried, and he was so excited he did not see her wipe the tears hastily away.

“I have a letter from Paris—from Percy Seabright’s bride—is not that a surprise?”

“Why should she write to you?” cried the girl, in wonder.

“She has just read in a paper the news about her husband’s arrest for murder, and far from being sorry over it, she seems to find in it a cause for exultation. She adds another item to the list of his crimes.”

“Another! Oh, Emmett!”

“Yes, Italy; you remember that day last summer when some one pushed you over the side of the yacht into the sea?”

“And Mrs. Dunn falsely declared that you had done it. Ah, yes, I can guess it all; Percy Seabright was the wretch!”

“Yes, she saw him do it, and would not betray him because she loved him. But her love seems to be turned into hate now, and she confesses all and implores my pardon for that false charge. But you may read it for yourself.”

When she had finished and handed the letter back to him, she saw a glad, loving light in his bonny blue eyes, and started nervously when he cried:

“Ah! Italy, I am so glad to be cleared at last of that cruel charge.”

“No one ever believed that falsehood, no one!” she asserted vehemently, and he thanked her with the greatest fervor.

“Ah! Italy, how this letter brings back last summer! I loved you so dearly, so dearly, and my heart is still the same. Can you give me no hope, dear one?”

She drew back in surprise and pain.

“Oh, Emmett, I thought you had forgotten. I quite believed——” she cried, then paused.

“Believed what?” he asked anxiously, and she faltered:

“I thought you were learning to love sweet Isabel Severn.”

“And did you care, Italy?”

“No, Emmett, I was glad, for I can never love you except as a friend, and I thought she would make you a charming wife, she is so sweet and good and lovely.”

“But she worships the memory of her dead husband; she will never love any one else!” he exclaimed, and Italy answered with a scorn he could not understand:

“Perhaps she will find out some day that he was not worthy such devotion, then her heart will turn to some better man.”

“And you can never, never love me as I wish, dear one?”

“Never, Emmett, although you are worthy any girl’s devotion. But love goes where it is sent, you know. Forgive me for paining you, and let us always be true friends,” she cried, holding out her hand to his responsive clasp.

So it was evident that it was not for Emmett Harlow’s love fair Italy was breaking her proud heart in secret.

CHAPTER XXX.

PERCY SEABRIGHT’S TRIAL.

There was silence in the thronged court-room—silence so deep it was almost preternatural.

The lawyer was reading aloud some paragraphs here and there from Ronald Vale’s diary.

No one seemed more interested than the handsome prisoner. Faultlessly dressed, cool, nonchalant, even smiling, he leaned back in his chair, the cynosure of curious eyes, seeming rather to enjoy his notoriety. And certainly if there was any éclat in villainy, he was entitled to the palm.

To be accused of murder and arson, and conspiracy against the good name of the innocent, made very sensational reading in the newspapers, and drew the attention of the world upon the criminal. Whatever might be the outcome of it all, Percy Seabright seemed to enjoy the present stage of the proceedings, and deported himself like a hero.

The lawyer read on from the diary in clear, bell-like tones:

“It seems strange that I have married the beautiful girl that always detested my friend Percy. Naturally he is furious, but then he was always jealous of every woman I spoke to, and he did not wish me to marry at all. How strange he is at times! I wish most sincerely I had never met him. He is not what my fancy painted him in our first acquaintance. How dearly I loved him then, and how much I was deceived in him. He is a consummate actor.

“My wife dislikes and dreads him. What if she knew that in a wild spasm of jealous rage he once threatened to end my life and then his own. Decidedly he is insane. I must write to his brother, I must tell him it would be well to place poor Percy in confinement where he cannot injure himself nor any one else. This morning we had a stormy interview. I told him of certain malicious falsehoods he had promulgated against my wife, and that only because he was mentally unbalanced had I spared him the punishment that was his due. I told him he was forgiven for the sake of our past dear friendship, but that our further intimacy was obnoxious to my wife, and must come to an end.

“At first he was furious, and vowed revenge on us both. I soothed him all I could, and he grew calmer, took an affecting leave of me, and vowed he was going at once to New York, never to see me again. I am more unnerved than I had thought possible by this affair. Poor boy, it is a sudden ending to what once promised to be a beautiful, life-long friendship. Only for that weak mind he would have been so noble. I am in no mood to attend the reception to-night. If my darling will excuse me I will remain at home. My thoughts follow poor Percy in his exile. But surely he will soon forget and make new friends.”

The lawyer paused with his finger on the page, looked solemnly around at the sea of eager, upturned faces, and said impressively:

“That is the last entry made in the diary of Ronald Vale, and it bears date the day of the murder. But here, following, are pages written in a different hand which we shall presently prove to be that of Percy Seabright.”

The prisoner actually smiled complacently at this point, but ere Mr. Gardner could go on, a low groan of anguish rose upon the air. The next moment, Mrs. Vale sank fainting in her daughter’s arms.

Never before for years had Mrs. Vale looked on the face of the man who had, with deadly malice, wrecked her whole life, and the sight of his cool, complacent face was more than she could bear. Mrs. Mays and the German professor kindly took her home, left her in Mrs. Severn’s care, and went back to the trial.

When Mrs. Vale had gone, another lady took her place at Italy’s side. It was Mrs. Murray, deeply veiled and very undemonstrative, but taking an eager interest in the proceedings.

Under cover of the momentary confusion attending the exit of Mrs. Vale, she found time to whisper nervously to Italy:

“Who is this man, this Professor Doepkin? The first sight of him startled me, he is so like my son. Surely you have noticed it.”

“Yes, I saw it from the first. He is a German who came over with Emmett Harlow.”

“I must know that man. Why, it gives me pleasure only to look at him. The likeness is very striking.” Her voice sank in a smothered sob:

“Oh, Frank, Frank!”

Italy pressed her hand and answered huskily:

“Be patient, dear. He will surely return to you.”

But the sigh that breathed over her lips as she said it was torturing. She could offer comfort, but she could take none herself.

“He will never come back to me—that was all a blind mistake of mine,” she thought. “Perhaps it will be Alys who will win him after all—Alys Audenreid with her fair, blonde beauty.”

A sudden fear came to her, and she whispered agitatedly to Mrs. Murray:

“If he ever comes back to you, dear heart, mind that you never betray to him the secret I once thoughtlessly confided to you—that I thought—that I fancied I loved him!”

“Do you mean that you have changed, that Emmett has won you after all?” returned Mrs. Murray, in a reproachful undertone.

“Emmett has not won me—we are only friends—but I—I made a mistake, and—I do not want Mr. Murray ever to know,” the girl faltered, and turned hastily toward Mr. Gardner, who was about to begin the reading of Percy Seabright’s entries in the diary of his murdered friend.

The prisoner, who was sitting by the side of Mrs. Smith, gasped slightly once or twice, turned a shade paler, and leaned forward to listen to the reading.

The lawyer’s well-trained voice rang out clearly:

“The fatal deed is done. I have known for months that the goading devil within me would make me kill Ronald Vale!

“Yet I shall be haunted till I die by the look in his eyes as my dagger pierced his breast, and his dying moan: ‘How could you do it, Percy?’”

A groan of execration arose from the listeners, but it was quickly hushed, and Mr. Gardner read on:

“It was her fault—hers and that little dark-eyed child’s. They stole his love from me. He belonged to me utterly until her blue eyes and her golden hair wiled his heart away. For years they made me wretched. To-day when he bade me leave his presence forever I swore revenge for my slighted love.

“Ah! how dearly I loved him! I would have given my life for him! Alas! he had to give his for me! But now he is mine, all mine—in death he belongs to me! I did not plan to kill him—it all came suddenly on me!

“I started to New York, but I came back that night for one more look at his beloved face. And while I hung around the window watching him unseen, she came in—his lovely wife that I hated with such jealous hate!

“She had been to a reception and was glittering in diamonds and frosty laces. She hung around his neck, and, weeping, told him of the wicked falsehoods I had circulated about her. He kissed her tears away, and told her I could never be his friend again, that his contempt would bitterly punish my treachery.

“Those words of scorn for me, those caresses for her, drove me mad with jealous rage. Once I had begged him to kiss me. He refused in cold surprise, saying he did not like kisses between men, and he should never kiss any one but the one beloved woman who should be his wife. Those kisses awoke the sleeping devil in my nature! I had often wanted to kill myself, but this was the first time I ever thirsted for another’s life.

“There was a dagger on my person I had bought to kill myself. When Mrs. Vale went weeping from the room I sprang through the low library window; I flung myself on Ronald Vale like a tiger, and buried my dagger in his false heart!”

“Ah-h!” suddenly groaned the prisoner; and for once he quailed before the glances of hatred that fell on him, and put up his hand before his face.

“Oh, Percy, my poor boy, you did not do it—tell me you did not do it!” wailed an anguished voice, and Mrs. Smith, his faithful friend and nurse, grasped his arm in a convulsive pressure.

A low, gurgling sound came from her white lips, and then a torrent of blood flowed from them. In a moment she was dead—dead of the shock and horror of knowing her beloved master a murderer; but happily dead ere she knew the full extent of his wickedness, ere she heard of the baseness with which he had persecuted the hapless widow and her only child, his conspiracy against Francis Murray, and his crowning fiendish act in trying to burn two sleeping women in their house, to gratify his sleepless hatred, and in fear lest they should yet bring home to him his awful crime.

The further hearing of the trial had to be postponed until the morrow.

The prisoner had quite broken down, and was weeping womanish tears over the dead woman, who had been his friend from his unfortunate childhood. He was remanded to prison, and the body of Mrs. Smith, after a quiet inquest, was buried the next day.

Italy returned with Mrs. Mays, the German, and Emmett Harlow to their boarding-house. She found her mother sitting quietly in the parlor.

A moment later Isabel Severn abruptly entered the room. The young widow’s beautiful face looked like marble against her sable mourning-robes and jet-black locks, and her somber dark eyes fastened themselves on Italy with an expression of keen despair. She went up to the young girl, extending her slender white hands with a gesture of pleading.

“Oh, for God’s sake! tell me it is not true!” she cried. “Ah, I have loved you so, loved and trusted you, believing you an angel. It breaks my heart to think that you are wicked and deceitful.”

They gathered around her in wonder and amazement. Professor Doepkin drew close to Italy’s side. He saw that she had turned deadly white, that she was trembling so that she could hardly falter:

“What is it that you mean, my dear Isabel?”

“Ah, Italy, you know. He has succeeded at last, that boy at Mr. Gardner’s who has been watching so long for the beautiful face of the girl who went away with my husband from the office the evening he was murdered. To-day the boy, Robert, saw her face again in the crowded court-room. He came here to tell me; he is waiting now to identify you—you—Italy Vale!—as the girl whom I believe to be concerned in the killing of my husband. Oh, God! how horrible it is to know you are the woman I have sought so long. How could you keep silence when I poured my misery into your ears? Are you indeed false and wicked? Speak! tell me how my poor husband died, and what part you had in the crime. Speak—ere I fall dead at your feet!” and she knelt before Italy with streaming eyes and upraised hands in piteous pleading.

Mrs. Mays had looked and listened to her daughter in the wildest consternation. She believed that Isabel’s sorrows must have driven her mad. She hurried forward and tried to lead her from the room.

“Come away to your own room, my dear, you must not speak to Miss Vale in this strange fashion!” she cried distressedly.

But Isabel resisted her efforts and Italy begged her to desist.

“Let her stay and hear the cruel truth, for now I cannot hide it any longer,” she said firmly.

And to the surprise of every one, she took Isabel’s hands gently in hers and led her to a chair.

“Sit here and listen to my story,” she continued, “for I do know how your husband died, and it was to shield another woman that I have kept the secret so long. But, my dear friend, it is a very sad story for the ears of a loving wife. I would spare you if I could, but it is now impossible.”

“Go on,” Isabel answered with burning impatience; and then Italy looked around, her glance lingering longest on Professor Doepkin, who stood nearest to her of all.

“I wish you all to stay,” she said. “You have all heard Isabel’s accusation, you must hear my defense.”

There were Professor Doepkin, Mrs. Vale, Mrs. Mays, Emmett Harlow, beside herself and Isabel. They all drew near, and then Italy began her story.

She was pale as death, she trembled, and her dark eyes were heavy with unshed tears. It was a cruel ordeal for any young girl—to tell the story of a man’s wickedness to the wife who loved him and believed him true!

She did not know how she would ever hold out to do it, but she did, and with a dramatic force and fire that held her hearers spell-bound. They hardly drew breath while she talked, and there were tears on every cheek, it was so thrilling, the story of that night when she had left The Lodge to place herself in Mr. Gardner’s protection, and fallen into a villain’s power.

“Perhaps I have done wrong to keep the secret so long,” she said. “I did not want to betray Mrs. Dunn; that is why I kept silent.”

“Isabel, I always said that Craig Severn was a bad man. I heard it before you married him, but you would not listen to me,” cried her mother almost exultantly.

But the stricken widow turned upon her with such reproachful eyes that she could say no more.

Then Italy bent before her pleadingly.

“Will you take back your unkind words now?” she begged wistfully.

“Oh, Italy, forgive me, dear, for my heart is broken.”

And Isabel burst into a passion of tears. They led her gently to her own room, to wrestle with her terrible sorrow, while the others agreed to keep silent over what had just passed until Mrs. Severn had decided whether she would prosecute the murderess.

Every one wondered why Mrs. Dunn had wished to kill Craig Severn, until clever Emmett said:

“I have a plausible theory. Perhaps she saw only his back and believed it was Percy Seabright. She was madly jealous of him, you all know, and perhaps her jealousy led her to go to that house to look for him. Seeing him in company with a beautiful young girl, perhaps drove her to murderous fury. Yet I hope Mrs. Severn will not make it public for the sake of her relatives, especially sweet Alexie, whom we all admire and love. It would be very sad for her to hear this story on returning from her wedding-tour.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE WAGES OF SIN.

On the next day Percy Seabright’s trial was continued. The reading of the diary was resumed by Mr. Gardner. Surely no one but a madman would have criminated himself like this, by writing down the details of all his wicked deeds.

Everything was written there—the murder of Ronald Vale, the hasty flight to New York, the hurried return, the attendance on Mrs. Vale’s trial for murder, the dastardly persecution of the hapless widow that he had begun by telling Francis Murray a slanderous story, pretending that she was in love with himself.

With ghoulish glee he exulted over the misery of the woman who had come between himself and Ronald Vale, explaining how his base anonymous letters had hounded her from place to place and made her life a torture.

Then the coming of Italy Vale to Winthrop was dwelt on. Foiled for once by the girl’s plans, he believed Mrs. Vale dead at last, and transferred his hatred to her daughter.

The discovery that Italy was on the track of her father’s murderer filled him with rage and dismay. He felt certain that unless he could compass her death she would track him down, for the soul of a heroine beat in her breast, and he instinctively recognized the force of her strong character.

Then began his attempts to murder her, beginning with the cunning plot the day of the yachting-party when he had adroitly pushed her overboard. Furious was his rage at the failure of this attempt, but other schemes were tried soon, and Providence defeated his malignity until it seemed to him as if the girl bore a charmed life.

All the time he was pretending the greatest friendship for her, although secretly thirsting for her fair young life. It was in vain that he tried to throw suspicions on Francis Murray; she scorned them all, and he realized that her life was a constant menace to his liberty. She would never give up the battle until she had won it, but if she were only dead the matter would rest, where she had been advised to leave it—with the long-ago given verdict of the jury and the world.

Suddenly came the tragic happening of the moonlight party, and Percy Seabright raved with fury because the winds and waves had spared Italy Vale again, but in the supposed death of Francis Murray he saw his opportunity.

It was no wonder that the sailor who had carried to Mrs. Murray the news of her son’s death could never be found. With the preternatural cunning of insanity, Percy Seabright had prepared the confession and, disguised as a rough sailor, delivered it himself. He now believed that Italy would believe Francis Murray guilty, and give up the search.

Following upon these events came the return of Mrs. Vale to Boston, reawakening all his sleepless hatred. His call on Mrs. Vale when she had declined to see him was only a blind to hide his wicked intentions. He had already plotted to burn her house that night and destroy both herself and daughter.

But for Professor Doepkin’s heroism, he would have succeeded in his malignant designs.

It was a most revolting record of crime that the man had written in the stolen diary, little dreaming that it would ever see the light of day until after his death, when, in his love of sensation, it is probable he would have left it to the public.

The remaining few paragraphs related to his approaching marriage with his detested fiancée, and were not of interest to the general public.

It scarcely needed the testimony of the medical experts who had been summoned in the case to prove Percy Seabright a maniac whose liberty menaced all. An insane asylum would be his prison, and his career of crime was over, but the general public declared that his punishment was too light. They declared that hanging was too good for him, and that he ought to be burned at the stake.

But the prisoner’s brother, his only living relative, was very glad to be spared the disgrace of having a brother hanged for murder. He hurried Percy at once into a lunatic asylum. And none too soon, for the defeat of all his plans, and the tragic death of Elizabeth, the good soul who had so tenderly cared for him in his periods of dementia, so preyed on his mind that he soon became violently insane, and the paroxysms lasted so long that every remnant of reason left him. A padded cell became his permanent abode, and in the summer following his conviction he committed suicide, during a furious spell, by strangling himself to death with his bedclothes.

And what of his widowed bride, who all this time had been enjoying herself abroad to the utmost extent that a lacerated heart and very slim purse would permit?

Her humiliation at the hands of her beloved Percy had turned her love to hate, so she was rather glad than otherwise to learn of his disasters at home.

“Had he sailed with me he would have escaped them all. He is well punished!” she thought maliciously.

But while she lingered abroad a great cholera scare seized upon the Old World. The cholera broke out, and among the victims that were chronicled duly in the New York papers was Mrs. Seabright.

But in our haste to relate the end of the wicked characters of our story we have somewhat anticipated events.

We must return therefore to the moment when Mr. Gardner, having finished the reading of the diary, stood looking around in silence on the interested throng. He had a dramatic surprise in store for them, and was preparing to unfold it.

Looking around upon the judge and jury he observed:

“Referring to the fiendish plot to ruin the good name of the supposed-to-be-dead Francis Murray, I have a very interesting story to relate.”

And he told in a graphic manner the story of Francis Murray’s rescue at sea, and the interest taken in him by young Doctor Loring, his recognition by Emmett Harlow, and the surgical operation that had raised the patient from a living death to full life and consciousness again.

How the great crowd hung on his words, how eagerly Mrs. Murray and Italy Vale bent forward to listen. Emmett Harlow and Professor Doepkin seemed quite nervous, too. The story sounded like a romance.

Mr. Gardner paused for a few impressive moments, then continued:

“Francis Murray, whose mother and friends mourned him as dead, was alive and well, and eager to go home. But think of his position!

“By the story of the mysterious sailor he was proved dead and guilty of a great crime. The public had accepted the story, and cleared Mrs. Vale of the shadow of suspicion that had rested on her for years. She, too, believed in his guilt. What if he came back now and denied the sailor’s story, and proved his own innocence?

“It would—unless the real murderer could be unmasked—again throw upon Mrs. Vale the blight of that dark suspicion, again darken the brightness of her life. There might even be people cruel enough to believe that the woman herself had originated the scheme to blacken Francis Murray’s memory.

“No, Francis Murray could not risk these disasters even for the sake of returning to his widowed mother’s arms. He must sacrifice her and himself to the good of another—to the woman whose life, so long a martyrdom, had just blossomed into peace and pleasure—Mrs. Vale’s equanimity must not be disturbed.

“Francis Murray remained abroad several months. He grew a luxuriant blond beard and long hair. He donned blue glasses, a slouching gait, and careless costume. He returned with Emmett Harlow to his native land; but he came as a stranger—a German student, Professor Doepkin.”

It was dramatic—that swelling hum of surprise and delight that followed his words. Over it all rose a wild cry of joy—the outburst of a mother’s heart.

Professor Doepkin had been sitting very close to Mrs. Murray—perhaps by design—and he turned very quietly and took her in his arms. The proud, stately woman broke down utterly, and sobbed joyfully:

“Frank, Frank, my son!”

It was a touch of nature that went home to every heart.

Women were sobbing all over the house, and men were moved beyond expression. The prisoner, as much surprised as any one, looked on with a smile like one at a play. He knew now that everything had failed, that his clever game was up, the play played out. Yet he could smile! To his bizarre nature, full of paradoxical moods, perhaps it seemed gratifying to know that he had played so well the villain’s part.

The confusion in the court-room could not be quelled for some moments, but the old judge, who had tears in his own eyes, was very lenient.

At length Mrs. Murray, suddenly becoming conscious that she was the cynosure of all eyes, drew back from her son’s clasp and pulled her veil over her tearful face. Then Francis Murray leaned across her and held out his hand to Italy, who was very pale and quiet.

“Have you no word of welcome for me?” he whispered pleadingly.

She gave him her hand with a very pensive smile, and said:

“I thank Heaven that you are restored to your mother, but I am not surprised. I knew you all the while.”

Mrs. Vale interrupted them at this point, and he could not reply. Her mother’s heart was overflowing with gratitude to the man she had so cruelly misjudged.

“How can I thank you?” she whispered fervently.

“I will tell you some day,” he replied, with a kindly glance at her daughter that told her his whole story.

The trial ended the next day, and no one was surprised at the verdict of insanity. The public had confidently expected it, for the story of the padded chamber and Mrs. Smith’s confession of her master’s insanity had been published in all the newspapers.

Percy Seabright received sentence of confinement for life with the unvarying smile he had worn through the whole trial. He made one single request. It was that he might be permitted to pay a farewell visit to the grave of Ronald Vale, whom he had murdered in revenge for his slighted love.

The wish was granted. By that quiet grave his bright smile faded, his dazzling dark eyes grew dim, and he wept bitterly for the friend whom he had loved with that strange, morbid passion. It was the only touch of feeling he had betrayed.

CHAPTER XXXII.

IN THE SUNSET’S GLOW.

The morning after the end of the famous trial Mrs. Murray came with her son to call on the Vales.

Francis Murray’s luxuriant beard had been all shaved off and his fair clustering locks carefully trimmed to his well-shaped head.

The blue glasses had been laid aside with the German professor’s slouching gait and careless clothes. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and appeared handsomer than ever to Italy’s admiring eyes. But she greeted him with a very quiet, constrained air.

She was afraid, horribly afraid, that Mrs. Murray had confided to her son the story of that night when she had owned her love for him.

Mrs. Murray had come to carry off the Vales to The Lodge. They must be her guests this winter, she declared! Her heart yearned over the pale, sad, golden-haired woman who had borne such a heavy cross of sorrow. She longed to make amends to her for all the grievous past.

“Come back to us, my dear, in your own old home, and let us love you as we want to and try to make you happy,” she said lovingly, as she put her arms about the graceful drooping form.

If there was one wish in the world that Mrs. Vale cherished it was to return to the old home where she had been so happy with her lost Ronald. Tears of joy sparkled in her dark-blue eyes, as she answered:

“We will be glad to come to you until we make arrangements for another home.”

Whatever Italy felt, she could not gainsay the wishes of that beloved mother, so she became Mrs. Murray’s guest at The Lodge, exposed to all the dangerous fascinations of its magnificent master.

And certainly he did not spare any effort to wound that girlish heart with the shaft of Cupid. He could be dangerously fascinating when he chose to exert himself, and he chose to do it now. Without the least obtrusiveness he surrounded her life with the most delicate attentions.

But there are none so blind as those who will not see.

Italy saw in her host’s tenderness only the rites of a courteous hospitality. A little thorn of jealousy was rankling deep in her heart. She knew that he had been to call on Alys Audenreid, for he had spoken of it frankly one day, but she did not know that Alys was in the habit of writing him tender little notes begging for these visits. The girl was playing her last desperate card to win him.

But when he spoke of her one day before his mother, she said curtly:

“Only for the sake of our sweet Alexie I could not tolerate Alys and her aunt. They are both scheming and deceitful creatures for whom I have neither liking nor respect.”

She could not forget that they had both pretended to believe in her son’s guilt, and she thought it was now too late for repentance. She was not uneasy on the score of Alys, however, for she knew well where her son’s heart was fixed. All that troubled her was Italy’s fixed coldness. Why had the girl’s heart turned from her son?

She knew that she cared for no one else, although she had so many admirers. But while she doubted, the pretty little play went on before her eyes, the devotion of Francis to the shy girl who accepted his attentions so coyly, sometimes even with studied indifference.

“He is not bold enough. He ought to speak to her and press his suit,” she thought impatiently, but she did not know that he feared his fate too much.

He thought himself unworthy of the beautiful, brave girl who was the heroine of the hour, who had fought such a valiant battle for her mother’s good name and peace of mind when strong men had tried to strike down her little, aggressive sword.

A month had passed away, and March was coming in. Soon the long and weary winter would be over.

Ralph Allen and his bride were coming home from their charming Southern tour. The Breakers, their beautiful new home in Winthrop close to The Lodge, was all ready for their reception.

Emmett Harlow, too, was building a beautiful home in Winthrop, and Madam Rumor hinted that it was for a bride. Certainly Emmett began to wear a happier look, and could meet Italy more cordially than of yore. She knew that he admired Mrs. Severn very much. He had brought her to The Lodge twice to see them all, and it was noticed that the young widow began to wear a brighter, happier look. Perhaps the knowledge of her husband’s treachery had proved an antidote to her sorrow. Italy cherished a secret, happy consciousness that dark-eyed Isabel would soon supplant her in Emmett’s heart.

The Gardners were frequent visitors. They adored Italy, and thought her the greatest heroine in the world. To Mr. Gardner, Mrs. Vale confided her desire to purchase a home for herself in Winthrop.

“I love the sea and want my home beside it. Ronald loved it, too,” she said, in that plaintive voice like saddest music.

“There are plenty of charming sites in Winthrop,” said the lawyer. “But, my dear madam, why not wait a while before you settle on anything? Are you not very pleasantly situated here?”

“I love Winthrop and The Lodge, but Italy thinks we ought to be settled in a home of our own,” she answered gently.

“So then it is you, Italy, who are trying to break up our happy little party,” cried Mrs. Murray, shaking a reproachful finger at the girl.

“We cannot stay here forever!” Italy answered, a little abruptly, but there was a curious break in her voice, and presently she slipped away from them all and went away to walk alone by the wild, March sea.

A lurid, crimson sunset was straining through low-lying snow-clouds that banked the horizon, and the red glow burned on the dull-gray sea with its long swelling white breakers.

Soon it would be dull-gray twilight, but now the warm glow bathed the girl’s figure in rich light, bringing out the brown hue of her sealskin cap and jacket, the purplish bloom on her waving hair and the golden light in the pansy-dark eyes.

The nipping wind blew the pink petals from the hothouse roses on her breast and scattered them as she walked along the level sands, while the voice of the sea, sullen, hollow, mournful, seemed like the voice of her heart, lonely, desolate.

Her mind went back to her first coming to Winthrop last summer—so long ago now it seemed—and all that had followed after. She had come with a heart full of resentment and suspicion, hating Francis Murray, determined to drag him down and bring home to him her father’s murder. That was barely eight months ago. Now she knew that Francis Murray was her fate.

“And he cares naught for me. Oh, how hard it is to lose him!” she thought with passionate despair.

There was a step on the sands behind her, and she turned with a start of fear.

“I have followed you, traced you by the rose-petals on the sands. Are you angry?” said a musical voice.

It was Francis Murray, handsome as a god in the lurid sunset light. He smiled as she turned and faced him—that wondrous smile so dangerous to her peace of mind.

“Are you angry?” he asked again anxiously.

“Why should I be angry?” she faltered. “But—you have taken unnecessary trouble. It is early yet, and I am not afraid.”

“I came to scold you,” he replied.

“What have I done?” she asked proudly, though her lips quivered.

“You have been spoiling your mother’s peace, trying to drag her from The Lodge to a new home.”

“Our visit has extended over a month already. We must not trespass too long on your hospitality.”

“Italy, how coldly you speak to me. Ah! child, will you never forgive my fault?”

“I do not understand you, Mr. Murray.”

“No? That is very strange, for all my thoughts dwell upon it, and I can never forgive myself. How you must have hated me when I would not help you track down the murderer of your father, when I sneered at your faith in your mother!”

His voice was earnest and intense. It thrilled her with its pathetic music, and her heart leaped wildly. She cried out impulsively:

“Oh, how could you think me anything but grateful to you? You were blind then, but so was all the world. It was only my love for my mother that kept my faith so strong, that made me triumph in the end. But you—you saved my mother’s life and mine at deadly peril of your own. We can never be grateful enough to you.”

“If you think you owe me any gratitude, child, it is easy to pay the debt.”

“How?”

“Give up this fancy of another home for yourself and your mother. Stay with us. There is room in that great house for us all. And she is so happy there in the home that used to be hers. And my mother, too, she will be lonely without the two she loves so well.”

“She will have you, her son,” she answered coldly.

“True; but your mother is a pleasanter companion, and the day may come, Italy, when—I—shall—marry. Then my time must be given to my bride.”

There was silence for a long, long minute. The meaning waves seemed to echo loudly in the girl’s ears:

“My bride! my bride!”

The pretty, shallow face of her rival rose before her mind’s eye. She thought how Alys would queen it at the great house yonder. Then she crested her head with defiant pride. His keen, earnest eyes should never read her heart, where that cruel thorn of sorrow hid and ached.

“I congratulate you on your approaching marriage, Mr. Murray, but that is only another reason why we should go away.”

“Why, Italy?”

“Because there could never be room enough for your wife and us two. Do you not remember that we were never friendly, Alys Audenreid and I?”

“Alys Audenreid, dear, has nothing to do with the matter. No bride of mine can ever oust you from The Lodge.”

He took her hand in his and drew her nearer to him. She trembled, but she did not resist.

The sunset light on his handsome, eager face showed her something in his eyes that was more than simple friendship.

“Have you been thinking I would marry Alys?” he demanded.

“Ye-es.”

“Was that the reason you have been so cold and cruel to me?”

“No.”

But Francis Murray laughed softly to himself. Light began to break on his darkness.

“Italy, won’t you look at me one moment?”

But the long lashes swept the glowing cheeks, and the red lips trembled with intense feeling.

He took the other little hand now and drew her closer still, until his broad figure seemed to shield her utterly from the nipping east wind. But neither knew that it was winter then. The summer of love was in their hearts.

“Little girl, I fear that you have a very bad memory. Have you forgotten the night we were parted in the water by that terrible accident?”

“No—oh, no!” she shuddered.

And he leaned over her a little nearer, so near that his breath caressed her glowing cheek.

“Do you remember the last words I said to you that night, my little girl?”

“I—I——” faltered Italy, in dire confusion, and paused.

“You do remember them!” cried he triumphantly. “I called you my love and my darling. How, then, could you think me false to that night? You have known all the while that I loved you.”

His eager, impetuous voice died away in a thrilling whisper, but no answer came from the happy girl leaning so near to his heart.

“You have known all the while that I loved you,” repeated Francis Murray ardently. “Then why have you been so cold to me? Was it because you could give me no hope? Am I too old at thirty-three to win the heart of a girl like you, barely eighteen? Oh, Italy, speak to me, child! Must I leave you?”

The little hand held him back, the low voice sobbed:

“Professor Doepkin was so cold to me it made me distrust your love. I thought you meant to ignore the past, and it almost broke my heart.”

“I was cruel, dear, but I thought Emmett had won you, after all, and that I was forgotten—even if you had ever cared for me. I hoped you would know me, through all disguises, and I almost despaired because you did not. But Emmett told me lately you had rejected him again, and he was learning to care for Isabel. So I took heart of hope once more. Oh, my darling, will you love me? Will you take my heart and my life?”

And the moaning waves echoed tenderly: “My heart and my life?”

Oh, the face that she raised to his, so beautiful, so loving, so happy! It was like an angel’s to his devouring eyes.

“My love, my bride!” he murmured rapturously, and caught her in his arms, pressing fervent kisses on the face that was so lovely and so happy.

And the sun, just sinking to rest below the restless sea, sent one long lance of quivering golden light across the waves, touching with a heavenly benison the dark and golden heads so close together.

THE END.

No. 1336 of the New Eagle Series, entitled, “Madcap Merribel,” by Julia Edwards, is a delightful love story with a rarely charming heroine.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

This novel was first serialized in the New York Family Story Paper from April 8, 1893 to July 15, 1893. This electronic text is derived from a 1931 paper-covered reprint, no. 1335 in the New Eagle Series. The 1931 edition includes advertisements before and after the text of the novel, but this extra material has been omitted here.

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Table of Contents

- SLIGHTED LOVE

- SLIGHTED LOVE.

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- CHAPTER XXXI.

- CHAPTER XXXII.

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE