Sorrow had softened her heart, or she would have been bitterly indignant at learning why Italy had come to Winthrop; but the young girl’s noble defense of her son had made her heart very tender. They both knew that they must bear whatever was coming to them as bravely as possible, for there yet remained one hope. Mr. Gardner, now that he had taken up the case, might find out the truth that had been hidden so long, might vindicate Mrs. Vale and Francis Murray both. The slow days slipped away, and while they waited in weary suspense, hope was dawning again for Francis Murray in the foreign hospital across the sea. The operation had been performed--was successful--memory had returned at the very moment that the pressure was removed from the brain, and, looking up into the faces around him, he had exclaimed wonderingly: “Emmett Harlow!” Tears of joy sprang into the young man’s eyes as he found himself so quickly recognized. Earnestly he pressed his friend’s hand, vowing to himself that he would soon restore him to home and friends. He found himself glad of an excuse for returning home, glad that he should see _her_ face again. He made arrangements to sail at once with his friend for America. Mr. Murray decided that it was best to go without first writing to apprise his mother. But on the very day before they sailed some American papers fell into their hands. And to the last day of life they would never forget the shock of that moment. In those columns was sensationally told the romantic story that had already startled Boston, with the additional news of the return of Mrs. Vale to the city where she had been so cruelly ill-judged. The fickle public that once had hated her had given her a perfect ovation, but repentance and atonement came too late, for on the still beautiful face of the martyred woman was written the record of a sorrow too deep to be consoled. Glad as she must be that the shadow of disgrace and crime was lifted from her life, there could never be any more happiness for her widowed heart. Francis Murray and Emmett Harlow looked at each other with pale faces and startled eyes. “Who has done this thing?” they cried in wonder. And there came suddenly to the older man a remembrance of what Italy Vale had told him of the hidden enemy whose venom had poisoned her mother’s life. “Can it be the trail of the same hidden serpent?” he pondered. But suddenly Emmett said thoughtfully: “It must be some person who is friendly to Mrs. Vale who has done this thing, for she alone reaps the advantage of it.” “That is true,” said his friend. And there came to him a suspicion so dark that he would not breathe it aloud. What if Mrs. Vale herself had concocted this scheme to clear herself from obloquy? “Well, you will soon be at home to deny the confession and confound the schemer,” cried Emmett exultantly. There was a moment’s silence, then Francis Murray said: “No, they believe me dead. Let them still think so.”