The dark, silken head lay still upon her knee. Italy was past moving or speaking for the moment, like one tranced in a terrible dream. The low, sad voice went on: “I should not have said that I was utterly friendless. My lawyer believed in me, was kind to me. After the trial I stayed for years in Boston, trying to live down the odium of my trial, but all in vain; then this kind friend advised me to come abroad.” “Mama, then you are an American?” cried the daughter, in surprise. “Yes, darling, I was born on New England soil, and your father was murdered at our seaside home at Winthrop, near Boston. It is there that his heir lives now.” “His heir, mama?” “Yes, Italy; your father was very rich, but his wealth had come to him through English ancestry, and was strictly entailed on the male issue of the family. You were a girl, so the money went to a very distant cousin, a young man. To me, the hapless widow, and to you, the orphaned daughter, remained only my own small private fortune. With no relatives to turn to, deserted by my former friends, abhorred by the world, I soon became the restless wanderer I am now, but pursued ever by some malignant, unknown foe, who constantly blazons my sad story to the carping world.” “My dearest one!” cried the girl caressingly, and her tender voice was full of love and sympathy. The pale, statuesque face of Mrs. Vale quivered with emotion, and she strained the girl to her breast, sobbing convulsively: “My child, you can never know what I have suffered! Oh, it has been a living death, this life of mine! I loved my husband so dearly that his loss was enough to break my heart; and to think of being accused of his death, to think of living under a ban, acquitted by the law, and judged guilty by popular verdict. Oh, it is enough to drive one mad!” and her slight form shook with heavy sobs as she clung to the beloved child, whose love was all that had saved her from utter misery. “Mama, who did it? Who killed my father?” cried the girl. “God alone knows, Italy. There was never any clue to any one, save some weak evidence that threw suspicion on me. Darling, I have kept all the papers in the case and everything relating to it--kept them for you when you should grow to womanhood. You shall read them to-morrow, you shall know the whole tragic story, so that you may judge the mother you love.” “My dearest one!” again cried the girl, and they wept together in each other’s arms. * * * * * That was long months ago, and now the girl who had knelt weeping in the old Italian garden walked alone on the beach at Winthrop, her dark, eager eyes fixed on a splendid old stone mansion fronting the sea--The Lodge, where her father had been murdered and where his heir now lived. She went toward the grand villa, her eyes bright and thoughtful, her mind going back to that golden day in Italy when she had heard her mother sob despairingly: