“Natalie,” the mother exclaimed, turning rather pale, “you don’t know what you are saying.”

“But it is true; do not you understand, mother?” the girl said, despairingly.  “The Society has given him some duty to do—­now, at once—­and it will cost him his life.  Oh, do you think he complains?—­no, he is not one to complain.  He says it is nothing; he has pledged himself; he will obey; and what is the value of his one single life?  That is the way he talks, mother.  And the parting between him and me—­that is so near, so near now—­what is that, when there are thousands and thousands of such every time that war is declared?  I am to make light of it, mother; I am to think it is nothing at all—­that he should be going away to die!”

She had been talking quite wildly, almost incoherently; she had not observed that her mother had grown paler than ever; nor had she heard the half-murmured exclamation of the elder woman,

“No, no—­not the story twice told; he could not do that!”

Then, with an unusual firmness and decision, she led her daughter to the easy-chair, and made her sit down.

“Natalie,” she said, in earnest and grave tones, without any excitement whatever, “you have told me your father was very much against you marrying Mr. Brand.”

There was no answer.  The girl sitting there could only think of that terrible thing facing her in the immediate future.

“Natalie,” said her mother, firmly, “I wish you to listen.  You said your father was opposed to your marriage—­that he would not hear of it; and you remember telling me how Mr. Brand had refused to hand over his property to the Society; and you talked of going to America if Mr. Brand were sent?  Natalie, this is your father’s doing!”

She looked up quickly, not understanding.  The elder woman flushed slightly, but continued in clear and even tones.

“Perhaps I am wrong, Natalushka; perhaps I should not teach you to suspect your father.  But that is how I see it—­this is what I believe—­that Mr. Brand, if what you say is true, is to be sacrificed, not in the interests of the Society, but because your father is determined to get him out of the way.”

“Oh, mother, it is impossible!  How could any one be so cruel?”

“It would be strange if the story were to be twice told,” the mother said, absently.  Then she took a stool beside her daughter, and sat down beside her, and took one of her hands in both hers.  It was a reversal of their ordinary position.

“Listen, Natalie; I am going to tell you a story,” she said, with a curious resignation and sadness in her voice.  “I had thought it might be unnecessary to tell it to you; when Mr. Brand spoke of it, I said no.  But you will judge for yourself, and it will distract your mind for a little.  You must think of a young girl something like yourself, Natalushka; not so handsome as you are, but a little pretty, and with many friends.  Oh yes, many friends, for