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.