ou have no longer a sister!" she cried, turning to her son, with the
nervous spasm which returned each time she spoke of her daughter. "She
is dead for us! She has disgraced us! I curse her! You, you alone are
my heir!"

At these words the young prince pricked up his ears and bent even more
attentively toward his mother. The news of his sole heirship was so
pleasant and unexpected that he did not even think of asking how his
sister had disgraced them, and only said with a deep sigh:

"Oh, mamma, she was always opposed to you. She never loved you!"

"I shall make a will in your favor," continued the princess, telling
him as briefly as possible of Princess Anna's flight. "Yes, in your
favor--only on one condition: that you will never recognize your
sister. That is my last wish!"

"Your wish is sacred to me," murmured her son, tenderly kissing her
hand. He had always been jealous and envious of his sister, and was
besides in immediate need of money.

The princess signed her will that same day, to the no small
satisfaction of her dear son, who, in his heart, was wondering how
soon his beloved parent would pass away, so that he might get his eyes
on her long-hoarded wealth.

II

THE LITHOGRAPHER'S APPRENTICE

Later on the same day, in a little narrow chamber of one of the huge,
dirty tenements on Vosnesenski Prospekt, sat a young man of ruddy
complexion. He was sitting at a table, bending toward the one dusty
window, and attentively examining a white twenty-five ruble note.

The room, dusty and dark, was wretched enough. Two rickety chairs, a
torn haircloth sofa, with a greasy pillow, and the bare table at the
window, were its entire furniture. Several scattered lithographs, two
or three engravings, two slabs of lithographer's stone on the table,
and engraver's tools sufficiently showed the occupation of the young
man. He was florid, with red hair; of Polish descent, and his name was
Kasimir Bodlevski. On the wall, over the sofa, between the overcoat
and the cloak hanging on the wall, was a pencil drawing of a young
girl. It was the portrait of Natasha.

The young man was so absorbed in his examination of the twenty-five
ruble note that when a gentle knock sounded on the door he started
nervously, as if coming back to himself, and even grew pale, and
hurriedly crushed the banknote into his pocket.

The knock was repeated--and this time Bodlevski's face lit up. It was
evidently a well-known and expected knoc