“The sun is shining after the storm--a happy omen,” she said; “I will go to Mr. Gardner after breakfast.” She went down and had her morning meal with Ralph Allen and the only other boarder, a grim professor of Greek, who hurried out as soon as he had bolted his meal. Ralph lingered for a few moments’ chat with her before he strolled off to his studio. He was a rising young artist. “I saw Alexie yesterday, and promised her for you that all three of us would go to the theater this evening. Was I impertinent?” he queried brightly. “Not at all. I shall be very glad,” she replied smilingly; for Ralph seemed like a brother to her, he was so genial and kind. She was going up-stairs for her hat and jacket when she met Mrs. Mays coming down. “Miss Vale, you have been so kind. Will you do me another favor?” she inquired deprecatingly, and as Italy gazed at her inquiringly she added: “Will you come in and see Isabel a few moments. She is so grateful for your kindness last night, and wants to thank you herself.” “It was nothing----” Italy began, but she followed Mrs. Mays along the hall to her daughter’s room. The invalid was lying in bed propped up in pillows, with the dimpled little baby held to her breast with one arm. A warm shawl of rose-colored cashmere was draped about her shoulders, and above it shone a face of wondrous beauty, dark in the eyes and hair, arch in the features, but ghastly pale and wasted now, with big eyes, too solemn and somber for her age, that could not have exceeded nineteen at the most. Mrs. Mays led Italy to the side of the bed. “My dear, I’ve brought her, the sweet girl that took care of baby last night, so that you could thank her for her goodness to us. Miss Vale, my daughter, Mrs. Severn.” Italy bowed, muttered some almost inaudible words, then sank helplessly into a chair by the bedside, her brain whirling. Severn! Severn! That name had struck her like a blow! She recalled what she had read in the papers about the beautiful young wife of Craig Severn who was nearly crazed by his tragic end! Could this be Craig Severn’s widow? “Miss Vale, are you ill? You have grown very pale,” cried Mrs. Mays. “No, no, it is nothing serious--just a dizziness! I am all right now,” gasped Italy, lifting her head quickly, then she looked at Mrs. Severn. “I am glad that you are better. I hope you will soon be well,” she said. “I don’t want to get well--I want to die!” was the answer, in a voice of passionate despair. “Isabel!” cried her mother remonstratingly, but the unhappy creature looked at Italy, exclaiming: “You don’t blame me, do you? Oh, Miss Vale, you know my sad story, of course. I had the dearest husband in the world, and he was murdered--foully murdered--before we had been married a year. What is there left for me to live for now?” “The baby,” Italy said falteringly.