“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: