"Natacha, now it is your turn; sing me something," said her mother.
"What are you doing in that corner like a party of conspirators?"

"I am not at all in the humor, mamma," said she; nevertheless she rose.
Nicolas sat down to the piano; and standing, as usual, in the middle of
the room, where the voice sounded best, she sang her mother's favorite
ballad.

Though she had said she was not in the humor, it was long since Natacha
had sung so well as she did that evening, and long before she sang so
well again. Her father, who was talking over business with Mitenka in
his room, hurriedly gave him some final instructions as soon as he heard
the first note, as a schoolboy scrambles through his tasks to get to his
play; but as the steward did not go, he sat in silence, listening, while
Mitenka, too, standing in his presence, listened with evident
satisfaction. Nicolas did not take his eyes off his sister's face, and
only breathed when she took breath. Sonia was under the spell of that
exquisite voice and thinking of the gulf of difference that lay between
her and her friend, full conscious that she could never exercise such
fascination. The old countess had paused in her "patience,"--a sad, fond
smile played on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and she shook her
head, remembering her own youth, looking forward to her daughter's
future and reflecting on her strange prospects of marriage.

Dimmler, sitting by her side, listened with rapture, his eyes half
closed.

"She really has a marvellous gift!" he exclaimed. "She has nothing to
learn,--such power, such sweetness, such roundness!"