She glanced at him gravely as she spoke, and was startled to see his lips curl and his brows lift at the corners in that diabolical sneer of his that had frightened her once before, and that transformed him all in a moment from a Doctor Jekyll to a Mr. Hyde. “Oh, don’t,” she cried, in a voice of pain, and the ugly scowl faded into sullen gravity. He said quickly: “I am glad of your absolute faith in Francis Murray, and I will help you in your researches all that I can, if you will keep me advised of your progress, and tell me what to do.” “Thank you,” she answered gratefully, and just then Ralph released his pretty model for that day, and the conversation became general. A little later they all took leave of the artist, Percy Seabright claiming that he had to go out to his country house that day on business. His smile was very bright as he said adieu, but when he turned away the malignant scowls returned and lingered. * * * * * At Winthrop, in the beautiful villa by the sea, the days and weeks dragged by, leaden-footed in their torturing anxiety and deadly suspense. The lonely mistress of The Lodge had at length given up all hope, and wore mourning for the son she believed to be dead. She had aged years and years in those weeks of anguish. Her iron-gray locks had whitened to snow, her eyes were dim with weeping, her face and form were thin and wasted. Grief had wrought a deadly work. But if there was one emotion stronger in her heart than sorrow for the dead it was hatred for the living--resentful hatred of Italy Vale. All the loss and sorrow that was weighing her down she dated from the hour when that dark-eyed beauty had crossed the threshold of this peaceful home and bewitched her proud, handsome son--led him like a will-o’-the-wisp on to his dread fate. “Why did I ever counsel him to receive her into this peaceful home? He was reluctant enough at first, but I told him it was our duty to our kinsman’s daughter. Alas! how miserably I am punished for my kindness! I might have known that her mother’s child would bring woe and desolation under any roof where she dwelt. Those great dark eyes, that flowerlike face, how soon they wiled Francis from his first shuddering dislike, until, in spite of himself, he grew to love her! If he had lived he would have married her, I know. Perhaps it is better he died than to have wedded one with that dark brand of a mother’s sin upon her head! But, ah! I must go down to my grave a lonely old woman, and never fondle my son’s children upon my knees.” She wept hot, scalding tears, for she had a true, womanly heart, and the dream of her life had been to see her grave, intellectual son wedded to a fair and loving wife, and hear his little children’s voices making music in the quiet, aristocratic halls of the stately home.