“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.