“Why has my father never told me?” she asked, with the same almost incredulous stare.

“Have I not hinted?  The less said the better.  There are some things no government will amnesty.  Your grandfather was a good patriot, little daughter.”

Thereafter for some minutes silence.  Slight as was the information Calabressa had given her, it was of intensest interest to her.  There was much for her to think over.  Her mother, whom she had been accustomed to regard as a beautiful saint, placed far above the common ways of earth, was suddenly presented to her in a new light.  She thought of her young, handsome, surrounded with lovers, proud-spirited and patriotic—­a devoted daughter, a brave woman.

“You also loved her?” she said to Calabressa.

The man started.  She had spoken quite innocently—­almost absently:  she was thinking that he, too, must have loved the brave young Hungarian girl as all the world loved her.

“I?” said Calabressa.  “Oh yes, I was a friend of hers for many years.  I taught her Italian; she corrected my Magyar.  Once her horse ran way; I was walking, and saw her coming; there was a wagon and oxen, and I shouted to the man; he drew the oxen right across the road, and barred the way.  Ah, how angry she used to be—­she pretended to be—­when they told her I had saved her life!  She was a bold rider.”

Presently Calabressa said, with a lighter air,

“Come, let us talk of something else—­of you, par exemple.  How do you like the English?  You have many sweethearts among them, of course.”

“No, signore, I have no sweethearts,” said Natalie, without any trace of embarrassment.

“What!  Is is possible?  When I saw your father in Venice, and he told me the little Natalushka had grown to be a woman.  I said to him, ’Then she will marry an Englishman.’”

“And what did he say?” the girl asked, with a startled look on her face.

“Oh, little, very little.  If there was no possibility, why should he say much?”

“I have no sweethearts,” said Natalie, simply; “but I have a friend—­who wishes to be more than a friend.  And it is now, when I have to answer him, it is now that I know what a sad thing it is to have no mother.”

The pathetic vibration that Brand had noticed was in her voice; her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped.  For a second or two Calabressa was silent.

“I am not idly curious, my little daughter,” he said at length, and very gently; “but if you knew how long your mother and I were friends, you would understand the interest I feel in you, and why I came all this way to see the little Natalushka.  So, one question, dear little one.  Does your father approve?”

“Ah, how can I tell?”

He took her hand, and his face was grave.

“Listen now,” said he; “I am going to give you advice.  If your mother could speak to you, this is what she would say:  Whatever happens—­whatever happens—­do not thwart your father’s wishes.”