He regarded her for a moment, and then he spoke more slowly than hitherto: 

“Little Natalushka, I told you I am going away; and who knows what may happen to me?  I have no money or land to leave to any one; if I had a wife and children, the only name I could leave them would be the name of a jailbird.  If I were to leave a will behind me, it would read, ’My heart to my beloved Italia; my curse to Austria; and my—­’Ah, yes, after all I have something to leave to the little Natalushka.”

He put his hand, which trembled somewhat, into the breast of his coat, and brought out a small leather case.

“I am about to give you my greatest treasure, little one; my only treasure.  I think you will value it.”

He opened the case and handed it to her; inside there was a miniature, painted on ivory; it might have been a portrait of Natalie herself.  For some time the girl did not say a word, but her eyes slowly filled with tears.

“She was very beautiful signore,” she murmured.

“Ah little daughter,” he said, cheerfully, “I am glad to see the portrait in safe-keeping at last.  Many a risk I have run with it; many a time I have had to hide it.  And you must hide it too; let no one see it but yourself.  But now you will give me one of your own in exchange, my little one; and so the bargain is complete.”

She went to the small table adjoining to hunt among the photographs.

“And lastly, one more point, Signorina Natalushka,” said Calabressa, with the air of one who had got through some difficult work.  “You asked me once to find out for you who was the lady from whom you received the little silver locket.  Well, you see, that is now out of my power.  I am going away.  If you are still curious, you must ask some one else; but is it not natural to suppose that the locket may have been stolen a great many years ago, and at last the thief resolves to restore it?  No matter; it is only a locket.”

She returned with a few photographs for him to chose from.  He picked out two.

“There is one for me; there is one for my old mother.  I will say to her, ’Do you remember the young Hungarian lady who came to see you at Spezia?  Put on your spectacles now, and see whether that is not the same young lady.  Ah, good old mother; can you see no better than that?—­that is not Natalie Berezolyi at all; that is her daughter, who lives in England.  But she has not got the English way; she is not content when she herself is comfortable; she thinks of others; she has an ear for voices afar off.’  That is what I shall say to the old mother.”

He put the photographs in his pocket.

“In the mean time, my little daughter,” said he, “now that our pressing business is over, one may speak at leisure:  and what of you, now?  My sight is not very good; but even my eyes can see that you are not looking cheerful enough.  You are troubled, Natalushka, or you would not have forgotten to thank me for giving you the only treasure I have in the world.”