“Then I think Ralph’s plan is a good one. You see, he is boarding with a nice, quiet old lady in Boston while his folks are abroad. This old lady is quite a lady indeed, but in reduced circumstances, and takes a few boarders to eke out a genteel support. The family is small, herself and a daughter lately widowed. She has Ralph and a few other boarders, all good people. It is quite near us, too, which is another reason why I want you to go and board with this old lady, for then I could come and see you so often, dear.” “You are a darling to plan everything for me like this. I will go to the old lady, and a thousand thanks to you,” Italy sobbed gratefully. Italy’s two devoted friends removed her the next day from The Lodge to her pleasant new home in Boston. Mrs. Murray remained cold and unrelenting to the last, and returned no reply to the brief note of thanks and farewell that Italy sent to her by her maid. She stayed closely shut in her own room until Italy had left the house, and heard with vindictive pleasure the crunching of the carriage wheels that bore her away. And yet Mrs. Murray was not a mean or unprincipled woman. She had only been led astray by blind prejudice and the evil counsels of interested friends. She knew in her heart that Italy Vale was beautiful, pure, and good, and in consenting to receive her into the household at The Lodge she had put aside selfish prejudice and acted from a high sense of womanly duty combined with pity. But her pride and prejudice had both taken serious alarm as she noted the interest that her son was taking in his protégée. This alarm skilfully fostered by the scheming Mrs. Dunn and her crafty niece, Alys, had developed into actual dislike and jealousy of the hapless orphan girl. But as she listened to the grinding carriage wheels and exulted in Italy’s departure, the still, small voice of conscience was murmuring in her breast, although she tried to drown it. She knew that Italy was not to blame for Francis Murray’s death, if he were really dead, and she knew that if he returned he would censure her course in turning adrift on the world the lonely orphan who but a month ago had come to Winthrop pleading for a mother’s love to replace that which she had lost. Alas! the world is but a cold, bleak place to a friendless orphan girl, and those who should love her most often goad her to despair by harshness or indifference. Mrs. Murray’s heart had shut itself against poor Italy, and she resolutely stifled the accusing voice of her sensitive conscience. But in Italy’s heart there was no resentment for Mrs. Murray’s course. Her heart was full of pain and sympathy for the sadly bereaved mother. “Oh, that I might imbue her with some of my sanguine faith that Mr. Murray is not dead, and that he will yet return!” she exclaimed often, yet as weeks went on with no tidings she, too, began to lose heart of hope.