“It is true,” Italy answered solemnly. “Oh, Mrs. Murray, look at the facts. This hidden foe, not content with his poisonous anonymous letters, whispered to Francis Murray and Mr. Gardner a slanderous story involving mama’s honor and making her guilt plausible. At length I grew up, and learning all the bitter truth, vowed to give my life to the vindication of my mother’s name. And he, this hidden assassin, who struck in the dark at my father’s life and my mother’s honor, finding out, no doubt, that the avenger was on his track, and frightened lest he be found--this assassin, this fiend--plots cunningly to lay the crime on a man believed to be dead, and thus incapable of striking back. So there is my answer to your question.” “And before Heaven, I believe that your theory is correct all through. We will join hands, Italy, and hunt the villain down.” “You sympathize with my hopes and aims?” cried Italy, in wonder. “Yes, dear, and will aid you all that I can. I would give much to have your mother’s innocence proved, and the dark shadow lifted from her name.” “Bless you, bless you,” wept Italy, in boundless gratitude. “You are the first one to give me a word of hope and encouragement. They have all said: “‘Leave the case alone, she was guilty, she was guilty!’” “She was innocent! I firmly believe it now,” cried Mrs. Murray warmly, and her tears flowed at the thought of Mrs. Vale lying in her lonely foreign grave, dead of a broken heart. They talked a long time together, and when they parted tenderly to retire for the night, Italy said: “Perhaps that sailor was the murderer himself in disguise. He has gone away triumphant, believing that I will seize eagerly on that confession, blazon it to the eager world, and give up the search for the real criminal. But we will thwart him there. The forged letter lies there on the floor in a hundred fragments. Let us keep silent over that stupendous falsehood. He will know then that we did not believe it, and our silence will be a menace to his safety.” “But, oh, Italy, who can the guilty one be?” “The white light of Heaven will show us some time, Mrs. Murray. Now, good night,” and they parted, each solemnly vowed to keep the secret of the forged confession, and little dreaming of the awful blow that would fall on both to-morrow. Leaving Mrs. Murray and our sweet Italy at Winthrop, we will go back to that August night upon the sea when, in the windless fog, the small dory had been cleft asunder by the prow of a steamer that, unable to rescue them in the dense mist that prevailed, had gone on her majestic way, leaving them to their threatening fate. We have seen how Italy, clinging to a fragment of the boat, had drifted in to the shore; we must now follow the fortunes of our noble Francis Murray for a little space.