“Yet she is your friend,” the girl returned pointedly. “Yes--a friend of the family--Percy Seabright introduced her to us, and we made friends with her for his sake. Yet she is in some ways not quite admirable--a strong nature, full of prejudices, and--but we will not discuss the guest beneath our roof--that would be ungenerous. Suffice it to say, she and Emmett Harlow disliked each other, and she--made a mistake. She as much as acknowledged she was wrong, remember.” “Yes,” she faltered. “And so I want you to believe in Emmett Harlow, child. He is good and noble. If you could have married him, it would have been a good match.” “I am not looking for a match of any sort, Mr. Murray.” “Perhaps not; you are such a child. Yet Emmett could have made a new world for you. He is rich, you know.” “What does that matter? I should never marry a man for his money!” He gave a short laugh of veiled approval. “For what, then--love?” “No, nor even love while this dark shadow of a mother’s disgrace rests on my name. Do you think I could drag down a man to my level, and through his love for me bring shame upon him? No; but if I loved a man and he loved me, I should say to him: ‘If you indeed love me, help me to clear my mother’s memory from the tragic shadow resting on it, and then I will marry you.’” Her white arm supported her dark head, and her eyes flashed with intense fire. The loose, curling tresses fell away from her brow and made a rich frame for the small, pale face and exquisite white throat. It flashed over him how maddeningly beautiful she was--beautiful beyond all other women. “No man can ever help you to do that, Italy, for, alas! it is beyond mortal power,” he sighed. “I do not believe you!” she flashed wilfully. But he regarded her with intense pity. “You are like a helpless little canary beating its wings against its prison-bars,” he said. “And I will beat my wings until I am free--until my mother’s name is vindicated!” she exclaimed, and again the grave eyes surveyed her in pain and pity, and he breathed: “God help you, poor child!” It made her angry. She rose to go. “One word!” he exclaimed, barring her way. “Italy, I think my mother has told you that I was selfish about the library--that I liked no one to come here. She made a mistake. Will you consider yourself free to come when you choose, to use my books, anything you like, feeling yourself fully welcome?” His face was flushed--eager. She colored suddenly, too. “Thank you. Yes, I will come,” she said, moving to the door. And as he again gave her his arm she murmured very low: “Do not think me ungrateful to you for helping to save my life because I have not thanked you yet. Believe me----” “Do not mention it,” he said abruptly and led her in a strange, embarrassed silence to her own door. CHAPTER VIII. A MOTHER’S HATE. At breakfast the next morning Alexie said regretfully: