“She shall not go to-night. Francis will not be here to contradict my authority, and I am determined she shall stay at home.” And that very hour she said to Italy: “You look quite pale and ill from your dreadful experience yesterday, and you must not think of going out on the beach with the party to-night.” “Dear Mrs. Murray, I would not miss it for anything! The very idea has a fascination for me. Please do not oppose my going. I will wrap up warmly, and not take cold,” pleaded Italy. “I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I am sure you are not well enough, and I distinctly forbid your going,” was the calm reply, in a tone of assured authority that forbade remonstrance. Italy’s heart sank with disappointment at the arbitrary command, but she offered no rebellion, and saw the gay party leaving for the tryst with unshed tears in her proud dark eyes. She was young, and in spite of her sorrows, had looked forward with eagerness to the moonlight party, which, to her girlish fancy, seemed full of romantic promise. Mrs. Murray’s cold refusal seemed unjust, cruel. “And,” she said to herself bitterly, “she has no good reason for it. It is only an exhibition of despotic power. She secretly hates me, and likes to make me unhappy.” With a cold excuse, she left the triumphant woman and retired to her own room, to sit alone by the window and watch the sea and muse upon her own loneliness. The weather was very warm for the raw climate of Massachusetts. The last days of summer were most balmy and beautiful. It was an ideal night for the moonlight party. The night was calm and clear, and the stars were already sparkling through the purple twilight haze, and beginning to mirror themselves in the heavy sea, but it lacked two hours yet to moonrise. A sob rose in Italy’s throat as she pictured the gay party on the beach just two miles away, enjoying themselves, while she was so sad and lonely here in the window. She wondered if Mr. Murray was there yet, and what he would say to her absence. Would he approve of his mother’s arbitrary decision? As she pictured him by the side of Alys Audenreid, laughing and talking, a strange sense of loss and desolation swelled her heart. She bent her head on her hand and wept wildly. A quick step came along the hall to her door, paused, and then there was a rap twice repeated, for Italy’s bursting sobs drowned it. A voice spoke clearly outside: “Italy, will you please come to the door? I wish to speak to you.” She caught the voice, the words, and with a joyful heart-throb sprang to open the door. When Francis Murray spoke, Italy forgot her tears and her sorrow--forgot that she was sitting in the dark, forlorn and wretched.