The ladies, with the exception of Mrs. Dunn, all crowded round Italy, but the more skilful maid motioned them away. “I think Mr. Murray had better carry her to her room. I want to loosen her clothes, for this is no common faint,” she said gravely. So once again Francis Murray took Italy up like a child in his arms, and carried her to the room she had left in bitter anger yesterday. She lay still as death against his breast, but his face looked calm and quiet as usual. Who was to tell that his heart was beating violently against its precious burden? Who could guess that a mad longing overcame him to strain her close and kiss the white cheek lying on his shoulder so near to his lips? It wrenched his heart to put her out of his arms and leave her there to the care of the maid and his cold-faced mother, just now entering. “Shall I call a physician?” he asked anxiously. “It is not necessary,” she replied indifferently, and closed the door on his troubled face. He could not return to the guests below just yet. He walked the length of the hall and paused a while in the embrasure of the window, looking out at the restless sea. There had been a high wind last night, and in the storm a pretty little sloop had gone to pieces. The wreck had washed up on Winthrop beach, and lay there now idly in the full sunlight of the day, while the waves, still a little rough and heady, came breaking against the ruined hull with sharp reports, spattering the powdery spray high in the air. Some heaps of drift dotted the sands, and the glancing wings of sea-gulls flashed over the waters here and there. Francis Murray seemed to be looking at these things, but in reality it was a vacant stare. He was looking into his own heart. He was startled at the violence of his own emotions now and while he had carried helpless Italy close in his strong arms. Since the day when she had come first to The Lodge, and he had received her unwillingly as a guest, his life had been altered--into its calm, scholarly quiet had crept a strange and subtile unrest. He had begun by disliking Italy Vale for her mother’s sake, and this very dislike created a strange tumult within him. He had watched her closely, and yesterday, when he had spoken to her so harshly it had seemed to him that dislike had turned into actual hate. What had happened to him since yesterday? Was his heart in revolt against his judgment and his reason? Was it a boy’s heart, still to be thrilled by somber dark eyes, a red mouth like a flower, and the warmth of a little helpless form carried tenderly in his arms? “I cannot help but pity her,” he murmured, as if that accounted for all. He was startled from his musings presently by the voice of his mother. “After all, Frank, I believe you had better call in Doctor Barksdale. Italy’s swoon is so heavy that we do not know what to do.” Doctor Barksdale came promptly, but it required all the skill he was possessed of to restore the young girl to consciousness.