He left her and she returned to Mrs. Murray with the glad tidings that the most eminent lawyer in Boston was going to help them to unearth the cunning criminal who had broken so many hearts. The slow days freighted with sorrow came and went drearily until ten days had passed, but nothing else happened to disturb the dreary tenor of life at The Lodge. Alexie Audenreid came with Ralph for the promised visit, and made a flitting gleam of brightness in the gloom, but Ralph gave Italy the sad news that little Mabel Severn, the baby she had named, had died the day before, fading out of life like the frailest summer flower. The young mother, he said, was almost frantic with grief. Italy’s heart ached for the mother’s grief, yet she could feel no regret for the little one removed so early from life’s troublous scene. “For what if little Mabel had lived like me to pledge her life to tracking down her father’s murderer? what heartache and sorrow must have been hers!” she thought. She longed to go to the unhappy young widow and condole with her in her sorrow, but there was an awful barrier between her and Isabel Severn that held her back. The sight of that pale, suffering face always brought back that night of horror when the false husband had met his doom, and she shuddered at the thought of how she had fallen fainting in that pool of the traitor’s blood. CHAPTER XXI. FRANCIS MURRAY RECOVERS. Alone in her room at night Italy Vale wrote long, long letters that were always blotted by her tears. And when she had sealed and addressed them to a certain sister of charity in a French convent she would kiss the picture in her pocket and whisper thrillingly: “My dearest one, my heart’s darling--oh, will you understand? Will you believe as I do? Can you be patient and wait a little longer?” When she had written one of those letters to the sister of charity, Italy always tossed a long time on her pillow before she could go to sleep. Then her lashes would glitter with the dew of tears, and her bosom heave even in its sleep with sobs. Once when she first came to The Lodge she had seen Mrs. Murray glance curiously at her letter as it lay with the other mail, and had explained carelessly: “It is Sister Mary at the convent where I went to school, you know.” Many long letters came to her, too, from the French convent. She always took them to her room to read alone, always kissed them and carried them in her bosom until another one came. If any one had seen her it would have been thought that the letters came from a lover. Girls did not kiss letters from any but a sweetheart. But the solution of the mystery was close at hand. One day there came to Italy a cablegram from France. When she had read it her face flushed, then grew deadly pale; she trembled like a wind-blown leaf. Mrs. Murray was regarding her intently. She asked anxiously: “Have you bad news, my dear?” Italy crushed the cablegram into her pocket, and answered unsteadily: