“It is something like this that has vexed mama, no doubt,” she thought, and her mother’s first words confirmed her belief. “After all,” she said, “perhaps I feel too strongly on the subject; perhaps I ought to forgive him, but do not think, my darling, that I was jealous of your father’s love for his friend. No, no; it was Percy Seabright that hated me!” Then Italy remembered suddenly that she had never heard Percy Seabright express one kindly feeling toward her mother. “Oh, mama!” she cried, aghast. “Percy Seabright disliked me before I was married, he hated me afterward,” went on Mrs. Vale, with that crimson spot still burning on her pale cheek, and her eyes agleam with blue fire. “But, mama, _why_?” “I was poor then, you know, Italy, and no one knew that my uncle, who so kindly cared for me, intended to make me his heiress. He was a bachelor, but still quite young enough to marry. But when you were only two years old Uncle Leonard died and his fortune came to me. But Percy Seabright, before I was married, tried to persuade your father that I did not love him, that I was marrying him for his money.” “Shameful!” cried Italy, with flashing eyes. “Was it not?” cried Mrs. Vale warmly. “But Ronald would not believe him. We were married, and he continued to hate me. I believe he was foolishly jealous of my husband’s love for me. Anyhow, we never became friends, and I found out at last that he was always plotting to turn my Ronald’s heart against me. The knowledge made me very bitter against him, and that night when I went to Ronald in the library my heart was very sore with something I had heard at the reception, some slighting words Percy Seabright had said about me. I told everything to my dear husband, and begged him to break off with Percy because he was mean and deceitful, and not worthy to be my darling’s friend.” “Oh,” breathed Italy, intensely interested, and Mrs. Vale continued: “Ronald was very angry, and threatened to call Percy out the next day, but I told him no, I did not wish it. I only wished he should withdraw his friendship from the traitor. He promised, with a caress, that he would do so, and added that he had long been losing faith in his once friend, and would not be sorry to give him up!” “Oh, mama, what if, what if----” Italy cried wildly. “My dear?” “What if--it has been--this man who followed you with his hatred all these years? It must be, because it is so plain!” the girl panted. “No, dear.” “But, mama, it must be. He might even have----Oh, could he have caused--could he have killed papa?”