“It is dreadful, isn’t it, her getting reliable news of her son’s death! and all of us hoping and praying that he would turn up alive and well some day. But that hope is over now, and she took to her bed the minute she got the news. But she wants you. She says she’s dying, but she can’t die till she’s seen your face again. I had to go to Mrs. Dunn’s to find out your address, and it’s getting late, so if you please, I’ll help you dress, so we can get back to Winthrop as soon as possible to my poor, dear, suffering mistress.” Mrs. Murray did indeed look like a dying woman as she lay there panting on her bed when Italy entered softly, having removed her hat and wraps in her own room, where the maid had first conducted her. Ordinarily the meeting must have been an embarrassing one to both women. They had never looked on each other’s faces since the day when Mrs. Murray had forbidden Italy to go to the moonlight party. A few days later she had left The Lodge by Mrs. Murray’s desire, and their life-paths had run in separate ways. But now the sympathy of a common sorrow had drawn the two hearts together so closely that it was almost like a meeting of mother and daughter. Mrs. Murray’s awfully pale and changed face turned in mute agony to the girl, and she half-extended her arms. Italy with a heart-breaking sob rushed to the bed, and, falling on her knees, clung to the stricken mother, pressing on her corpselike cheek a mute caress. The sympathetic maid withdrew, leaving them alone together to mingle their bitter sobs, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but those low and mournful sounds of a mother weeping for her son, and a young girl for her lover. It was sad enough to move heaven and earth to pity. At length Italy sobbed in a choking voice: “Oh, can you forgive me for my share in his death? Oh, if only I had not gone with him that night--if only----” her voice broke with the convulsive heaving of her breast. But all at once Mrs. Murray writhed herself out of the loving arms that held her, and groaned in an agonized voice: “You would not speak like that if you _knew_! You would not kiss me as you did just now. You would hate me--hate me for my son’s sake!” Her blue eyes, so dim already with bitter tears, overflowed in streams that ran in rivers down her pallid checks. She raised herself up in bed and clasped her pale hands together as she repeated: “You would hate us both, Italy Vale--hate us for the wrecking of your young life, for your father’s death, and your mother’s long agony. Alas! alas! alas! that I have lived to see this hour!” Her agony was piteous, and Italy stared at her in dismay. What could she mean? “Do you see how ill I look, Italy?” continued the half-frenzied woman. “Well, I am dying, surely dying. My heart broke when I read that letter from my son, and I seemed only living longer just to send for you and to tell you, as he bade me--oh, my God!--that terrible story.”