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."

She wished to withdraw her hand, but he still held it.