For two months she had been ill, and since the birth of her child, six weeks before, her life had been almost despaired of. But in the last few days she had shown signs of rapid improvement, and the sick-nurse, having another engagement, had left the invalid to her mother’s care. It was most sad to think of the hapless young mother widowed so suddenly before her child was born, and Italy’s heart swelled with grief and pity for the fatherless babe. In the pretty parlor down-stairs was a lovely crayon of a young girl with dark hair and eyes, and a wilful, pouting mouth, and Mrs. Mays had told her one day that it was her daughter Isabel. “Taken when she was at boarding-school just a few weeks before she ran off to marry a dissipated scamp. Yes, he was a scamp, Miss Vale, or he would have asked my consent, and not carried her off in that fashion, almost breaking my heart, for Isabel was my only daughter, and I loved her better than life. But perhaps he knew I would refuse, for though he was handsome and had a little money, he had a bad reputation as a fast man, and I would not have let my child marry him for wealth untold. But she married him without my consent, and I never forgave her till after his death, when she came home to me broken-hearted.” The little babe slept sweetly, the storm muttered on outside, and Italy, too much disturbed to sleep, lay among the pillows thinking, thinking, till her brain seemed to burn. She was glad that she could at last believe Francis Murray innocent of the sin of which she suspected him. Her heart had rejected the belief all the while, and now reason came to her aid. It could not be true. She had been mad to cling to that ignoble suspicion, after she had seen and known him in all the quiet nobility of his daily life. “I wronged that grand soul, and may Heaven forgive me!” she sobbed. A new plan had been forming in her mind for days, and she suddenly resolved to carry it out. Lawyer Gardner had been back in Boston some time, but as she was comfortably situated with Mrs. Mays, she had never opened communication with him, fearing his disapproval of the object that had brought her to America. But now rendered desperate by failure and hopelessness, Italy resolved to seek his sympathy and advice. “I will go to him this day,” she resolved firmly. A little after daylight Mrs. Mays came for the child. “Isabel is better, much better,” she said. “To tell you the truth, Miss Vale, it was partly hysteria that ailed her. She got to weeping over her dead husband, and then there was no controlling her nerves until the violence of her grief wore out her strength. She is calmer now, and begging for the baby. Thank you for keeping it so long for me.” She went away with the sleeping babe, and then Italy fell into a long sleep that lasted until she was aroused by the breakfast-bell. She rose and made a careful street toilet.