“An contraire, you shall not give up your walk,” said he, with great courtesy.  “We will go together; and then you will tell me about your father.”

She accepted this invitation without the slightest scruple.  It did not occur to her—­as it would naturally have occurred, to most English girls—­that she would rather not go walking in Hyde Park with a person who looked remarkably like the leader of a German band.

But Calabressa had known her mother.

“Ah, signore,” said she, when they had got into the outer air, “I shall be so grateful to you if you will tell me about my mother.  My father will not speak of her; I dare not awaken his grief again; he must have suffered much.  You will tell me about her.”

“My little daughter, your father is wise.  Why awaken old sorrows?  You must not spoil your eyes with more crying.”

And then he went on to speak of all sorts of things, in his rapid, interjectional fashion—­of his escape from prison mostly—­until he perceived that she was rather silent and sad.

“Come then,” said he, “we will sit down on this seat.  Give me your hand.”

She placed her hand in his without hesitation; and he patted it gently, and said how like it was to the hand of her mother.

“You are a little taller than she was,” said he; “a little—­not much.  Ah, how beautiful she was!  She had many sweethearts.”

He was silent for a minute or two.

“Some of them richer, some of them of nobler birth than your father; and one of them her own cousin, whom all her family wanted her to marry.  But you know, little daughter, your father is a very determined man—­”

“But she loved him the best?” said the girl, quickly.

“Ah, no doubt, no doubt,” said Calabressa.  “He is very kind to you, is he not?”

“Oh yes.  Who could be kinder?  But about my mother, signore?”

Calabressa seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“To say the truth, little daughter, how am I to tell you?  I scarcely ever saw her after she married.  Before then, you must imagine yourself as you are to think of her picture:  and she was very much beloved—­and very fond of horses.  Is not that enough to tell?  Ah, yes, another thing:  she was very brave when there was any danger; and you know all the family were strong patriots; and one or two got into sad trouble.  When her father—­that is your grandfather, little daughter—­when he failed to escape into Turkey after the assassination—­”

Here Calabressa stopped, and then gave a slight wave of his hand.

“These are matters not interesting to you.  But when her father had to seek a hiding-place she went with him in despite of everybody.  I do not suppose he would be alive now but for her devotion.”

“Is my mother’s father alive?” the girl said, with eyes wide open.

“I believe so; but the less said about it the better, little daughter.”