* * * * * We must not forget, either, another favorite of ours--Emmett Harlow. Emmett had a cultured, intelligent mind, and, being very well read, was exceedingly fond of travel. He was enjoying his tour as much as any one could do with a sore and aching heart. But there is a wonderful balm for grief in change of scene, and he was, unconsciously to himself as yet, proving this truth. At times, when brooding over Italy’s wondrous beauty and charm, he was bitterly unhappy, and it seemed to him that he could not bear his life without the hope of some day calling her his own. Again he would feel more cheerful and try to throw off the spell of his hapless love. While journeying on the storied Rhine he met up with some American friends, a gay party, from whom he gleaned all the news from Boston, and heard for the first time of the supposed death of Francis Murray. It was a severe shock to Emmett, for he had been cordially attached to this noble friend. “_She_ will miss him, too, for he stood toward her in the light of a guardian, and he watched over her so kindly and carefully,” he thought, then his mind reverted to Alys Audenreid. “Alys has lost him, after all--that is, I never thought she had the least chance at him, anyway, but she and that scheming aunt of hers were doing all in their power to slip the matrimonial knot over his neck,” thought the astute young man, who was a keen student of character and had long ago seen through the shallow motives of the woman who had uttered that cruel falsehood against him on the yacht. He wrote immediately to Mrs. Murray a long letter of sympathy and condolence on the death of her son, and sent a message of regard to Italy, whom he supposed to be still at The Lodge. But for a while his thoughts clung to her more persistently than ever. He thought of her sad and sorrowful over the death of her guardian, and it touched his heart. There were several beautiful young girls in the American party, but even their blandishments had no power over his fancy. It returned always to the lovely girl whom he had both admired and pitied at Winthrop; she was so beautiful, yet she had seemed so friendless among all those alien hearts. He hoped she was happier now, and that she had won her way to Mrs. Murray’s proud heart. “For she must be very lonely now that Francis is dead, and it ought to make her heart warmer to that poor, friendless orphan girl,” he thought, little dreaming how cruelly Mrs. Murray had visited her son’s death on Italy’s head. “Poor girl! if she could but have loved me I would have lavished gold in the effort to make her happy,” he sighed over and over. And it seemed to him that all his wealth availed nothing since he could not spend it for Italy. He spent long hours dreaming over her beauty, and longing for even one glimpse of her, although he knew that it was best that he should not see her until he had conquered his heart’s longing.