The woman, who had the air and bearing of a clever lady’s-maid, handed her a letter. “I will wait for the answer, please, ma’am,” she said, sitting down in the hall. And again Mrs. Mays tapped at the door of her boarder and handed in a letter. “The woman that brought it is waiting for an answer,” she said, a little curiously, for two letters in one evening both coming by messenger, seemed rather mysterious. “Come in, Mrs. Mays, and wait a moment. I dare say it is Miss Audenreid’s maid with a note from her mistress. Perhaps she wants me to go with her to the theater to-night, but I am not well enough,” answered Italy calmly. She broke the seal of the letter and read the contents with startled eyes. It was from Mrs. Murray, but the writing was so blurred and blotted as to be almost illegible, being evidently written under the stress of strong excitement. It began abruptly: “Italy Vale, if you have any forgiveness in your heart for the heartless treatment of a woman who was half-crazed with grief, come to me to-night. I have sent my maid to bring you, and she will take care of you. Come quickly, for I have startling news for you, and I must tell it soon, for I feel death hastening on, and when I have told it I must lie down and die!” The letter fell from Italy’s shaking hand, and she turned a face of wild despair upon the kindly landlady. “I have--bad news--Mrs. Mays,” she faltered, and the kind soul took her in her arms and held the dark head tenderly on her breast. “Poor dear--poor dear,” she murmured, and caressed her as if she had been her own dark-haired Isabel. Italy lay quiescent several moments, her heart beating wildly against Mrs. Mays’ supporting arm. She knew quite well from that grief-stricken message that Mrs. Murray must have news of her son’s death. There was no longer any hope. “Perhaps you would like to see the woman, my dear?” suggested Mrs. Mays kindly. “Yes, oh, yes, send her to me, please. She is sent to take me to the death-bed of my friend, her mistress,” faltered Italy, weakly, and the kind soul placed her on a sofa, picked up the fallen letter, and putting it in the owner’s hand, went down-stairs again. Italy, with her hand over her eyes, sobbed bitterly. “Dead, dead, dead, my noble friend! Ah! no wonder that his mother’s heart is broken.” “Don’t take it so hard, dear Miss Vale,” murmured a kind, sympathetic voice, and dropping her hand, she saw the face of Mrs. Murray’s maid, an intelligent middle-aged woman, who had shown her much kindness while she was at The Lodge. This woman now continued: