“No, madam; not an angel, but a very faulty human being,” she answered gently. “And one of my faults, if fault it be, is never to believe harm of one I love. And I--I loved Mr. Murray, although I did not realize it until he was dead, as I feared. Oh, do not think me bold for confessing this secret to you, his mother.” “God bless you!” sobbed the woman who had once hated her so bitterly; and as Italy placed her gently in a chair, she added: “Your faith in him makes me live again, drags me away from the dark shores of death, and the star of hope shines again for me. Oh, my noble, true-hearted girl, teach me some of your faith and confidence! That man--that sailor--how could he come to me with that story and that letter, signed by my son, if it was all a falsehood?” Italy had drawn forward a low ottoman, and was sitting like a child at the lady’s feet. She answered with a question: “Mrs. Murray, what were the names of the sailor and his vessel?” “He did not tell me either.” “Nor where to find him when you wanted his evidence to prove his story?” “No, he simply gabbled over the tale like one reciting a lesson, and as I sank back, half-fainting, at the news of my son’s death, he thrust the letter rudely into my hand and hastened away.” “And that letter, Mrs. Murray, did not contain the name of the vessel, nor of her captain, nor of the surgeon who wrote at your son’s dictation, nor of the sailor who was to bring it to you? Do you remember all these omissions?” “Perfectly, now that you recall them to me, Italy, although I was so agitated by it all at first that I believed it blindly, and took no note of the suspicious omissions you have recalled to me. Dear child! how bright and clever you are! But, alas! how can you account for my son’s signature to the confession, and his hand again in the address upon the back?” “Clever forgeries, dear madam, and perhaps we may some day unmask the wicked schemer who plotted this dastardly thing.” “Oh, my darling girl, how good and noble you are! Can you ever forgive me for my cruelty and unkindness? Although it would never have happened but for the evil counsels of selfish friends,” sighed the lady remorsefully. “Dear madam, I can well understand that, and there is no resentment in my heart. I wish only to be your friend!” “My daughter!” cried Mrs. Murray tenderly, and pressed an impulsive kiss on the upraised white brow of the girl, casting aside forever all her unjust prejudices in her overflowing gratitude for her noble faith in Francis. “Oh, my child, I should surely have died of this horror if you had not put new hope into my heart!” she cried. “Oh, Heaven, send me back my son that he may be happy with his mother and his wife! For he loved you, dear--he loved you well. I read his secret plainly.” A flash of happy light gleamed in the girl’s eyes, but she said simply: