“Come with me to my room. I have to tell you something.” “You have news of Francis!” cried the mother wildly. “Not of him,” Italy answered, and spoke no more until they were alone, out of hearing of the servants. Then she placed a chair for the lady, and knelt humbly at her feet. “Mrs. Murray, I have to make a confession to you, and to crave your pardon. I have deceived you,” she faltered. “My child!” “I have deceived you,” repeated the girl sadly. “When I came to Winthrop I told you I had lost my mother. It was not true.” “Italy!” “My mother _lives_!” said the girl. She waited a moment, but there was no reply, and she continued: “You will hate me for deceiving you, I know, but I must tell you all the truth. When I heard my mother’s sad story my suspicions fell on your son. We talked it over, and she agreed with me that the suspicion was plausible. I conceived the plan of coming here, gaining the shelter of this roof, and trying to bring home his crime to your son. You shrink from me. Ah, I do not blame you, for when I knew him well I grew ashamed of my suspicions. But then I hated him, and I persuaded mother against her will to let me come. She went into a convent to stay--Sister Mary to whom I write, you know--and I came here as you know, with my poor little story and my hidden scheme for finding my father’s murderer. You know how I have failed, and--she has grown impatient, missing me so much--she has been begging me to come home;” she paused and looked at Mrs. Murray’s face, so white and rigid as if carved from marble. “Oh, Mrs. Murray, can you not guess?” she wailed, “I wrote to her of this horrible thing that has happened, but I told her our suspicions were all wrong, that it could not be true. But my letter--she has never received it, for--this cablegram from her, from my dear mother--tells me she has seen it in the papers, that awful story, and believing it all, glad of her vindication, impatient to see me again, and yearning for her native land, she sailed for America to-day!” Italy gazed almost imploringly into Mrs. Murray’s face, for she feared that her deception would never be forgiven. Mrs. Murray’s face had indeed grown almost as rigid as marble. She realized, as Italy did, the terrible embarrassment that must ensue from Mrs. Vale’s return to her native land. It would not be easy to convince the wronged woman of Francis Murray’s innocence. The world would side with her and declare that his dying confession must be true. There would be no one but his mother and Italy to take his part. They looked into each other’s eyes a moment in blank despair, those two who loved Francis Murray so devotedly, and his mother answered through raining tears: “How can I help but forgive you, dear? You were wrong at first, but you have nobly atoned for your girlish folly.”