"Why has my father never told me?" she asked, with the same almost
incredulous stare.

"Have I not hinted? The less said the better. There are some things no
government will amnesty. Your grandfather was a good patriot, little
daughter."

Thereafter for some minutes silence. Slight as was the information
Calabressa had given her, it was of intensest interest to her. There was
much for her to think over. Her mother, whom she had been accustomed to
regard as a beautiful saint, placed far above the common ways of earth,
was suddenly presented to her in a new light. She thought of her young,
handsome, surrounded with lovers, proud-spirited and patriotic--a
devoted daughter, a brave woman.

"You also loved her?" she said to Calabressa.

The man started. She had spoken quite innocently--almost absently: she
was thinking that he, too, must have loved the brave young Hungarian
girl as all the world loved her.

"I?" said Calabressa. "Oh yes, I was a friend of hers for many years. I
taught her Italian; she corrected my Magyar. Once her horse ran way; I
was walking, and saw her coming; there was a wagon and oxen, and I
shouted to the man; he drew the oxen right across the road, and barred
the way. Ah, how angry she used to be--she pretended to be--when they
told her I had saved her life! She was a bold rider."

Presently Calabressa said, with a lighter air,