“You have a letter from _him_--oh, then he lives, he lives!” Italy exclaimed joyfully. “No, child, my son is dead. And it is better so--better had he died in his helpless infancy than lived to work such irredeemable woe!” answered Mrs. Murray distractedly. Then as she saw the wonder in the young girl’s beautiful, pale face, she tried to calm herself. “Ah, you think me mad!” she sighed. “You have no thought of the horror that has come to me, and that is coming to you. But no, no, to you it will be joy. The shadow of sin will be lifted from your mother’s memory; the world will revere her as a martyr, while they execrate my son as a demon! Ah, God! if only I might die with this story untold. But, no, no, it is my duty to speak, though the words blast my lips--to speak, and then die of the deadly dart that is rankling in my heart!” It was terrible to witness the agitation of this formerly cold, proud woman, who bore herself usually with the calm hauteur of a duchess. It mystified Italy more and more. She began to think that Francis Murray’s death had driven his mother insane. “Dear Mrs. Murray, calm yourself,” she faltered. “Be brave, be courageous. You do not know what hard and cruel things you have been saying of your noble son!” “My noble son! Oh, Heaven!” And the rising wind that began to shriek dismally around the house answered with a moan like a lost soul in pain. A storm was rising. Old Neptune was abroad on the waves. The hoarse murmur of the ocean as it broke in loud, sharp reports upon the beach came in regular beats to their ears, with that subtile sense of trouble always inspired by an angry sea. “Come and sit in this chair close by the bed, Italy, and I will tell you of my son’s death,” said Mrs. Murray, making a fierce effort to control her overmastering agitation. Italy obeyed her, but she said tenderly: “Dear Mrs. Murray, do not speak of it to-night; you are too ill. I can wait until to-morrow.” “To-morrow I shall be dead. I must tell you now and quickly, for I must not die like a coward and leave that secret untold. I must obey the dying command of my son and reveal it all to you--it is your due, my dear girl--only--only you must not exult in my presence, Italy, because I could not bear it!” And while the wind roared and the sea moaned outside, and Italy gazed at her with somber, wondering dark eyes, she began: “At sunset to-day there came to me a rough sailor with a letter and a story. That night when the little dory was cut in twain by a large vessel, my son was picked up by the crew with a dreadful wound upon his head. He lived but a few hours, but before he died he dictated a letter to the surgeon for me, and made them promise to deliver it on their return from Buenos Ayres. To-day the sailor brought me the letter signed by my son’s dying hand, and addressed by him. Oh, Italy, can you guess what he wrote?” CHAPTER XVIII. A LOYAL HEART. The dying woman’s voice was shrill with agony.