“She had the face of an angel, but I shudder when I think of those dazzling, dark-blue eyes with their long, curling lashes, and that exquisite face in its framing of golden-brown locks. How beautiful she was, and how wicked! How could she die with her sin unconfessed and not even repented?” “Italy will tell you nothing of her death?” he asked. “Nothing. The mere mention of her mother’s death throws her into such agonies of hysterical grief that I am forced to avoid the subject entirely. But it is evident that she loved her far more than she ever deserved!” CHAPTER III. ACCUSED OF FRAUD. “Will you bring me some roses, Italy?” Mrs. Murray asked one day, handing the girl a pretty willow basket. She had discovered that Italy was always restless and unhappy in the house, and that she liked best to wander alone in the garden among the flowers, or down by the beach, where the great waves came rolling in with their hollow, mysterious murmur of ships gone down at sea. Italy wandered along the graveled paths, snipping roses into her basket until it overflowed with the fragrant beauties, then she sat down to rest on a rustic bench beneath a magnificent tree. Her lovely, pensive face grew sad even to pathos. She drew a little heart-shaped gold locket from the chain at her throat, and, unclasping the lids, gazed long and earnestly at a face within. Then she kissed it with clinging lips. “My dearest one!” she cried passionately aloud. An approaching step made her conceal the pretty souvenir. The intruder was Francis Murray. There was a strange expression upon his face, something of aroused interest, and, instead of passing by, he bowed and seated himself at the other end of the bench. “She has a lover, this fair young thing. It was his face she kissed in her locket, it was of him she spoke,” he thought. He gazed with intent and thoughtful eyes at the slender, white-gowned figure, with its dainty, curving outlines and the lovely face with its proud, dusky eyes. The lights and shadows of the August moon shifted down through the leaves upon the purplish-dark of her rich, waving hair, and the delicate coloring of her skin, that deepened warmly under his strange gaze. Her heart fluttered with something like pain, and she rose to go. “No, stay, Miss Vale. I wish to speak to you,” said Francis Murray, in gently imperative tones, and she paused, startled, yet half-defiant, awaiting his will. Looking straight into her face, he asked: “Miss Vale, are you a sleep-walker?” Startled, she answered breathlessly: “No!” “Are you sure?” quizzically. “Certainly,” she answered, cresting her little dark head angrily. “Yet,” said Francis Murray coolly, “you were in the library last night at midnight, dressed in your night-robes. You carried a small night-lamp that you placed upon my desk while you proceeded to search all its compartments that were accessible to your prying eyes. Failing in your eager search, you sighed despairingly, and left the room.”