"Oh yes, signorina, I knew her," he said, with an apparent carelessness,
but he was regarding her all the same. "Yes, I knew her well. We were
friends long before she married. What, are you surprised that I am so
old? Do you know that I can remember you when you were a very little
thing--at Dunkirk it was--and what a valiant young lady you were, and
you would go to fight the Russians all by yourself! And you--you do not
remember your mother?"

"I cannot tell," she said, sadly. "They say it is impossible, and yet I
seem to remember one who loved me, and my grief when I asked for her and
found she would never come back--or else that is only my recollection of
what I was told by others. But what of that? I know where she is now:
she is my constant companion. I know she loved me; I know she is always
regarding me; I talk to her, so that I am never quite alone; at night I
pray to her, as if she were a saint--"

She turned aside somewhat; her eyes were full of tears. Calabressa said
quickly,

"Ah, signorina, why recall what is so sad? It is so useless. _Allons
donc!_ shall I tell you of my surprise when I saw you first? A
ghost--that is nothing! It is true, your father warned me. He said, 'The
little Natalushka is a woman now.' But how 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