“We cannot stay here forever!” Italy answered, a little abruptly, but there was a curious break in her voice, and presently she slipped away from them all and went away to walk alone by the wild, March sea. A lurid, crimson sunset was straining through low-lying snow-clouds that banked the horizon, and the red glow burned on the dull-gray sea with its long swelling white breakers. Soon it would be dull-gray twilight, but now the warm glow bathed the girl’s figure in rich light, bringing out the brown hue of her sealskin cap and jacket, the purplish bloom on her waving hair and the golden light in the pansy-dark eyes. The nipping wind blew the pink petals from the hothouse roses on her breast and scattered them as she walked along the level sands, while the voice of the sea, sullen, hollow, mournful, seemed like the voice of her heart, lonely, desolate. Her mind went back to her first coming to Winthrop last summer--so long ago now it seemed--and all that had followed after. She had come with a heart full of resentment and suspicion, hating Francis Murray, determined to drag him down and bring home to him her father’s murder. That was barely eight months ago. Now she knew that Francis Murray was her fate. “And he cares naught for me. Oh, how hard it is to lose him!” she thought with passionate despair. There was a step on the sands behind her, and she turned with a start of fear. “I have followed you, traced you by the rose-petals on the sands. Are you angry?” said a musical voice. It was Francis Murray, handsome as a god in the lurid sunset light. He smiled as she turned and faced him--that wondrous smile so dangerous to her peace of mind. “Are you angry?” he asked again anxiously. “Why should I be angry?” she faltered. “But--you have taken unnecessary trouble. It is early yet, and I am not afraid.” “I came to scold you,” he replied. “What have I done?” she asked proudly, though her lips quivered. “You have been spoiling your mother’s peace, trying to drag her from The Lodge to a new home.” “Our visit has extended over a month already. We must not trespass too long on your hospitality.” “Italy, how coldly you speak to me. Ah! child, will you never forgive my fault?” “I do not understand you, Mr. Murray.” “No? That is very strange, for all my thoughts dwell upon it, and I can never forgive myself. How you must have hated me when I would not help you track down the murderer of your father, when I sneered at your faith in your mother!” His voice was earnest and intense. It thrilled her with its pathetic music, and her heart leaped wildly. She cried out impulsively: “Oh, how could you think me anything but grateful to you? You were blind then, but so was all the world. It was only my love for my mother that kept my faith so strong, that made me triumph in the end. But you--you saved my mother’s life and mine at deadly peril of your own. We can never be grateful enough to you.”