“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: