“How could they say I killed him? I loved him so, I loved him so, and all my life is blighted by his loss!” Her lips were trembling with the sadness of that memory as she went up the broad stone steps to the grand portico dotted with inviting easy chairs, while the broad double doors in front stood hospitably open, giving a view of a magnificent hall paved with cool blue and white tiles, and adorned with gleaming white statues between immense potted plants of tropical beauty. The warm breeze of August, tempered by the cool sea-air, stirred the lance-leaved palms and bright-hued caladiums. “This would have been my home had my father lived,” she murmured, and then she saw a tall man-servant approach her from the interior of the hall. She roused herself from a fanciful retrospection, and asked for Francis Murray, the master of the house. “He is in his study. I will be pleased to take your card to him, miss.” “I have no card. Simply tell him a stranger on important business,” Italy answered, with a strange, defiant uplifting of her slender ebon brows, and she sat down in one of the portico chairs to wait. In another moment two beautiful young girls and a very stylish young man, all in natty yachting-suits, came sauntering up the broad steps. When they saw Italy sitting there in her simple gray traveling-dress, quiet and yet elegant, they stared in surprise, then nodded courteously, and also took seats at a distance, regarding her with veiled curiosity and admiration, all unconscious that this lovely, foreign-looking girl had brought into the quiet Lodge an element of intense tragedy. “Ah, Alexie, that was a glorious sail,” cried the young man gaily. “Alys did not think so,” and the young girl nodded at the other one, whose rosy lips were puckered in an angry pout. “It was hateful, and I wish you would not tease me, Ralph Allen!” exclaimed the pretty blonde petulantly, just as the servant came back and said: “Mr. Murray will see you, miss.” Italy followed him through the wide hall, and the other three gazed after the graceful form in subdued wonder. “Whew! Alys, how do you like that?” laughed Ralph Allen. “She is burning with jealousy of the beautiful unknown,” twittered the girl called Alexie, and the hum of their merry badinage followed Italy as she went with an almost tragic face toward the man she wished to see--her distant kinsman. She found him in a beautiful library, with most exquisite appointments, the large open windows fronting the sea, whose salty breath blew deliciously into the room and mixed with the fine aroma of a cigar that Francis Murray flung away as he rose to meet his stranger guest, the girl with the tropic face and soul, who was bringing at this moment new, strange elements of emotion into his calm, prosperous existence. CHAPTER II. IN NEW SURROUNDINGS.