“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.”