But no one else shared their anxiety. Percy Seabright and Mrs. Dunn were boisterously gay, and Alys Audenreid had a strange look in her eyes and a strange tone in her voice. She believed that the powers of evil had granted her wicked wish, and that Francis Murray and Italy were both drowned in the cruel sea. So hard and cruel had jealousy made her heart that she exulted secretly in the belief. She would much sooner have seen him dead than happy with her rival--beautiful, dark-eyed Italy Vale. In her blind fury of jealous rage, Alys wanted the world to end for those two who had made her so unhappy. She had grown hopeless of supplanting Italy in Francis Murray’s heart. Francis Murray had never shown Alys one sign of love, but she chose to consider herself wronged and deserted, and exulted in the speedy ending of those two lives. What a cruel thing is the jealousy of an ignoble mind--strong as death and cruel as the grave! It was almost two hours past midnight when Ralph Allen uttered a cry of the keenest joy: “The wind is rising, the fog lifting!” He and Alexie ran down to the beach again. The sea was ruffled with little white-capped wavelets, and the tide began to roll in upon the shore with a wailing voice. The wind was high and the fog was rolling away. They stretched their eyes over the wide expanse of water, hoping to see the little dory riding in with the tide. Ah, joy! There it came, far away as yet; but no--what was it tossing on the waves like a sail? Ralph Allen gave a loud shout, and the whole party ran down to him. They did not have to wait and watch long. Directly the strong tide brought in and cast at their feet the broken sail of the dory, with a half-unconscious girl clinging despairingly to the rope! Washed ashore on a broken sail that clung to some fragments of a shattered boat--oh, what an eloquent story was told in that occurrence! All of Ralph’s forebodings were dismally realized. He knew that the worst had happened, that the dory had been run into and destroyed by some monster steamer--but--where was Francis Murray? The wailing wind and the moaning sea gave no reply, and Italy’s lips were silent, too. Only a faint pulse at her heart gave signs of life. It was well that there was a physician with the party, and that warm coffee and wine were at hand. Everything necessary was quickly done, and then she was taken back to The Lodge breathing faintly but looking like a dead girl and quite unable to speak. They did not stay to see the sun rise, but disbanded mournfully--mourning Francis Murray as dead, and dreading lest Italy’s life should also be offered up as a sacrifice to the pitiless sea. Only Percy Seabright said hilariously: “It is evident that Miss Vale was not born to be drowned. She has had two hairbreadth escapes from the sea, and the Fates that pursue her had better change their tactics if they wish for success.”