w could one believe it?"

She had recovered her composure; she begged him to be seated.

"_Bien!_ One forgets. Then my old mother--my dear young lady, even I,
old as I am, have a mother--what does she do but draw a prize in the
Austro-Hungarian lottery--a huge prize--enough to demoralize one for
life--five thousand florins. More remarkable still, the money is paid.
Not so remarkable, my good mother declares she will give half of it to
an undutiful son, who has never done very well with money in this world.
We come to the _denouement_ quickly. 'What,' said I, 'shall I do with my
new-found liberty and my new-found money? To the devil with banks! I
will be off and away to the land of fogs to see my little friend
Natalushka, and ask her what she thinks of the Russians now.' And the
result? My little daughter, you have given me such a fright that I can
feel my hands still trembling."

"I am very sorry," said she, with a smile. This gay manner of his had
driven away her sad memories. It seemed quite natural to her that he
should address her as "My little daughter."

"But where are the fogs? It is a paradise that I have reached--the air
clear and soft, the gardens beautiful. This morning I said to myself, 'I
will go early. Perhaps the little Natalushka will be going out for a
walk; perhaps we will go together.' No, signorina," said he, with a
mock-heroic bow, "it was not with the intention of buying you toys. But
was I not right? Do I not perceive by your costume that you were about
to go out?"

"That is nothing, signore," said she. "It would be very strange if I
could not give up my morning walk for an old friend of my father's."

"_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 yo