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 your eyes with more crying."

And then he went on to speak of all sorts of things, in his rapid,
interjectional fashion--of his escape from prison mostly--until he
perceived that she was rather silent and sad.

"Come then," said he, "we will sit down on this seat. Give me your
hand."

She placed her hand in his without hesitation; and he patted it gently,
and said how like it was to the hand of her mother.

"You are a little taller than she was," said he; "a little--not much.
Ah, how beautiful she was! She had many sweethearts."

He was silent for a minute or two.

"Some of them richer, some of them of nobler birth than your father; and