They stood face to face, the pair, and just for a moment Italy’s eyes sank to the cool, blue-tiled floor, with its litter of white fur rugs. Then she looked up and met Francis Murray’s gaze. Suddenly her breath came in a quick gasp, she trembled strangely, and her lips, that had parted to speak, closed again without a sound. She was stirred in a new and subtile fashion she could not comprehend. It was the magnetic influence of manly beauty and power combined upon a young girl’s heart. Francis Murray was a large man, with a most attractive personality. He was fair without being strictly blond, his splendid eyes were blue-gray, with a sweet, serious look, his brow was white and square, his nose straight, his face oval with a firm chin, and full, sweet lips shaded by a drooping mustache of silky golden-brown. His hair a few shades darker, clustered in short, wavy masses to a grandly shaped head. He was past the early flush of youth, and looked thirty years old, perhaps a trifle more. On his side Francis Murray was gazing on a type of beauty entirely distinct from his own, and quite as captivating, but thirty years, and perhaps a store of experience, had made him unimpressionable. His fine eyes expressed only surprise and courteous inquiry as he spoke: “My name is Francis Murray, Miss----” “Vale--Italy Vale,” answered the girl, and she saw him start ever so slightly as he motioned to a chair. “Will you be seated, Miss Vale?” Italy was trembling strangely; she was glad to accept the courtesy. Then she lifted up her eyes to him and continued in her sweet, liquid voice with its distinctly foreign accent: “Perhaps my name is familiar to you, Mr. Murray. My father was your kinsman--Ronald Vale.” “Ah-h!” cried Francis Murray. He half-started from the chair into which he had gracefully flung himself; his handsome face grew slightly pale. Before he could speak, the low voice went on musically: “You have a mother, sir, have you not?” “Yes,” he replied coldly. “And I, sir, am doubly orphaned. I--I--have--lost--my--dear-- mother----” her voice shook painfully, and her lashes fell, perhaps to crush back rising tears. He interrupted, in surprise: “Mrs. Vale is dead! When?” But the girl was sobbing hysterically in her handkerchief. Some broken words escaped her lips--words of entreaty that he would not question her yet, while her sorrow was so fresh, so new. He was silent, respecting her grief, but his face was a study, it was so thoughtful, so perturbed. Italy looked up at him again presently, the bright tears beading her black curly lashes, her lips tremulous. “When I lost my mother I had--no kinspeople in the world but you,” she sobbed. “Mama had once--told me about you--and--your mother, so I thought I ought to come--home to you two. I call it home, you see, although I was born in Italy and bear that name. But I am an American, after all, you know, and my heart turned to my father’s old home. Was I wrong to come, or--may I stay?”