“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!”