e colors of the sunset; to
gaze down at them was like watching a flock of sea-butterflies flitting
across a background of undulating green.

They landed at the jetty, walked to the shore, and after securing a
carriage started on a long drive uphill to the _terreno_ of Signora
Verdi. Capri, betwixt the glow of the fading sunset and the light of the
rising full moon, was a veritable land of romance, with its domed
eastern-looking houses set in a mass of vines and lemon trees, and the
luscious scent of its many flowers wafted on the evening air. It seemed
no less attractive in the morning, when, after drinking their coffee in
a rose-covered arbor that stood at the bottom of their landlady's orange
grove, they wandered away through the _bosco_ and up on to the open
hillside. Here Flora had surely played a trick to plant golden genista
against the intense sapphire blue of a Capri sea, and she must have
emptied her apron all at once to have spangled the rough grass with
cistus, anemone, and starry asphodel. Below them lay a stretch of rugged
rocks and turquoise bay, with no sound to break the silence but the
tinkling of goat-bells, or the piping of a little dark-eyed boy who
practiced a rustic flute as he minded his flock. To poor Mr. Carson,
wearied with the noise and clamor of Naples, it was a veritable
Paradise, a haven of refuge, a breathing space in the dreary pilgrimage
of his sad life. On the top of this sunlit, rock-crowned islet he gained
a short period of peace and rest before he once more shouldered his
heavy burden.

"If I could live all my days here, Lorna, who knows, I might learn to
forget," he said wistfully.

"Oh, Dad! We must find a way out somehow. You can't go on like this!
It's killing you. Why have we to suffer under this unjust accusation?
Why should some one else do a shameful deed and shift the blame on to
you? Is there no plan by which you could clear your name?"

"I've asked myself that question, Lorna, through many black hours, but
I've never hit on an answer."

"I hate the man who's wronged you," she sobbed passionately. "Yes! I
hate him--hate him--hate him--and all belonging to him. Is it wicked to
hate? I can't help it when it's my own father's honor that's at stake.
Oh, Daddy, Daddy, if I could only 'get even' I'd be content. It seems so
hard to let the wicked prosper and just do nothing. Why should some
people have all the laughter of life and others all the tears?"

Lorna parted reluct