“Oh, I can; I can, my dear,” said the other, eagerly.  “At least I can tell you what is best and safest.  Is it not for a girl to go by her father’s advice—­her father’s wishes?  Then she is safe.  Anything else is wild, dangerous.  My dear, you are far too impulsive.  You do not think of consequences.  It is all the affair of the moment with you, and how you can do some one you love a kindness at the instant.  Your heart is warm, and you are quick to act.  All the more reason, I say, that you should go by some one else’s judgment; and who can guide you better than your own father?”

“I know already what my father wishes,” said Natalie.

“Then why not go by that, my dear?  Be sure it is the safest.  Do you think I would take it on me to say otherwise?  Ah, my clear child, romance is very beautiful at your age; but one may sacrifice too much for it.”

“It is not a question of romance at all,” said Natalie, looking down.  “It is a question of what it is right that a girl should do, in faithfulness to one whom she loves.  But perhaps it is better not to argue it, for one sees so differently at different ages.  And I am very grateful to you, dear Madame Potecki, for agreeing to take that message to my father; but I will tell him myself.”

She rose.  The little woman came instantly and caught her by both hands.

“Is my child going to quarrel with me because I am old and unsympathetic?”

“Oh no; do not think that!” said Natalie, quickly.

“What you say is quite true, my dear; different ages see differently.  When I was at your age, perhaps I was as liable as anyone to let my heart get the better of my head.  And do I regret it?” The little woman sighed.  “Many a time they warned me against marrying one who did not stand well with the authorities.  But I—­I had my opinions, too; I was a patriot, like the rest.  We were all mad with enthusiasm.  Ah, the secret meetings in Warsaw!—­the pride of them!—­we girls would not marry one who was not a patriot.  But that is all over now; and here am I an old woman, with nothing left but my old masters, and my china, and my ’One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four.’”

Here a knock outside warned Natalie that she must leave, another pupil, no doubt, having arrived; and so she bade good-bye to her friend, not much enlightened or comforted by her counsel.

That evening Mr. Lind brought Beratinsky home with him to dinner—­an unusual circumstance, for at one time Beratinsky had wished to become a suitor for Natalie’s hand, and had had that project very promptly knocked on the head by Lind himself.  Thereafter he had come but seldom to the house, and never without a distinct invitation.  On this evening the two men talked almost exclusively between themselves, and Natalie was not sorry to be allowed to remain an inattentive listener.  She was thinking of other things.

When Beratinsky had gone, Lind turned to his daughter, and said to her pleasantly,