“I have the greatest faith that he will return to us some time. He may indeed have been saved by some outward-bound vessel, and in course of time may come back to us. Let us try to believe this, and never give up hope.” “Then you must stay here with me, Italy, and keep the spark of hope alive in my despondent breast.” “I will stay gladly if you wish me, for your friendship will be very precious to me, dear Mrs. Murray. And as for that forged confession, let us never speak of it to any one. Then the villain will know that his scheme has failed.” “But, Italy, who could have hated my Frank so badly as to wish to blacken his memory with the foul stain of that awful crime?” CHAPTER XIX. FRANCIS MURRAY FOUND. She looked anxiously into the beautiful, excited face, and Italy answered solemnly: “Before I answer your question, Mrs. Murray, will you let me tell you the story of my mother’s life since my father’s death? I know you believed her guilty, but let us waive that now, and deal with the probabilities of her innocence. Will you listen while I take her part?” “Dear child, you are always taking some one’s part. It seems to be a divine attribute of your sweet nature, and who could blame a loving child for believing in her mother? Go on, Italy, and I will listen patiently as long as you wish.” “Thank you, bless you!” cried the grateful girl. And while the storm raged on outside with equinoctial fury, Italy, sitting humbly at the elder lady’s feet, poured forth the pathetic story of her mother’s sad and blameless life, and dwelt strongly on the mysterious foe who had pursued her with relentless hate, sending anonymous letters about her to every town where she took refuge, and inspiring even strangers with such horror of the murderess that they regarded her with hatred and fear combined, and so made of her a lonely, wandering exile with no friend on earth but her little child. Mrs. Murray was startled, surprised. She had never heard before of this mysterious persecution of Ronald Vale’s widow. “Mrs. Murray,” said the girl resolutely, “I have a theory of my own. It was not mama who killed her husband, it was not your son who killed his kinsman. The murderer was the man who has pursued my mother with such fiendish malignity.” “It must be true--it must be true!” Mrs. Murray cried eagerly.