"
"Ah, my old friend Calabressa! And he was here, in London, and he saw my
Natalie. Perhaps--"
She paused for a second.
"Perhaps it was he who sent the message. I heard--it was only a word or
two--that my daughter had found a lover."
She regarded him. She had the same calm fearlessness of look that dwelt
in Natalie's eyes.
"You will pardon me, monsieur. Do I guess right? It is to you that my
child has given her love?"
"That is my happiness," said he. "I wish I were better worthy of it."
She still regarded him very earnestly, and in silence.
"When I heard," she said, at length, in a low voice, "that my Natalie
had given her love to a stranger, my heart sunk. I said, 'More than ever
is she away from me now;' and I wondered what the stranger might be
like, and whether he would be kind to her. Now that I see you, I am not
so sad. There is something in your voice, in your look, that tells me to
have confidence in you: you will be kind to Natalie."
She seemed to be thinking aloud: and yet he was not embarrassed by this
confession, nor yet by her earnest look; he perceived how all her
thoughts were really concentrated on her daughter.
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