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You are troubled, Natalushka, or you would not
have forgotten to thank me for giving you the only treasure I have in
the world."
The girl's pale face flushed, and she said, quickly,
"There are some things that are not to be expressed in words, Signor
Calabressa. I cannot tell you what I think of your kindness to me."
"Silence! do you not understand my joking? _Eh, bien_; let us understand
each other. Your father has spoken to me--a little, not much. He would
rather have an end to the love affair, _n'est ce pas_?"
"There are some other things that are not to be spoken of," the girl
said, in a low voice, but somewhat proudly.
"Natalushka, I will not have you answer me like that. It is not right.
If you knew all my history, perhaps you would understand why I ask you
questions--why I interfere--why you think me impertinent--"
"Oh no, signore; how can I think that?"
She had her mother's portrait in her hand; she was gazing into the face
that was so strangely like her own.
"Then why not answer me?"
She looked up with a quick, almost despairing look.


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