There was a small sitting-room between the two bedrooms; Natalie conducted him into it, and went into the adjoining chamber for her mother.  A minute after these two friends and companions of former days met.  They held each other’s hand in silence for a brief time.

“My hair was not so gray when you last saw me,” the worn-faced woman said, at length, with a smile.

Calabressa could not speak at all.

“Mother,” the girl said, to break in on this painful embarrassment, “you have not seen Signor Calabressa for so long a time.  Will he not stay and dine with us? the table-d’hote, is at half-past six.”

“Not the table-d’hote, my little daughter,” Calabressa said.  “But if one were permitted to remain here, for example—­”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

“There are many things I wish to speak about; and so little time.  To-morrow morning I start for England.”

“For England?”

“Most certainly, little daughter.  And you have a message, perhaps, for me to carry?  Oh, you may let it be cheerful,” he said, with his usual gay optimism.  “I tell you—­I myself, and I do not boast—­let it be cheerful!  What did I say to you?  You are in trouble; I said to you, count upon having friends!”

Calabressa did stay; and they had a kind of meal in this room; and there was a great deal to talk over between the two old friends.  But on all matters referring to the moment he preserved a resolute silence.  He was not going to talk at the very outset.  He was going to England—­that was all.

But as he was bidding good-bye to Natalie, he drew her a step or two into the passage.

“Little child,” said he, in a low voice, “your mother is suffering because of your sorrow.  It is needless.  I assure you all will be well:  have I spoken in vain before?  It is not for one bearing the name that you have to despair.”

“Good-bye, then, Signor Calabressa.”

“Au revoir, child:  is not that better?”

CHAPTER L.

A WEAK BROTHER.

George Brand was sitting alone in these rooms of his, the lamps lit, the table near him covered with papers.  He had just parted with two visitors—­Molyneux and a certain learned gentleman attached to Owens College—­who had come to receive his final plans and hints as to what still lay before them in the north.  On leaving, the fresh-colored, brisk-voiced Molyneux had said to him,

“Well, Mr. Brand, seeing you so eager about what has to be done up there, one might wonder at your leaving us and going off pleasuring.  But no matter; a man must have his holiday; so I wish you a pleasant journey, and we’ll do our best till you come back.”

So that also was settled.  In fact, he had brought all his affairs up to a point that would enable him to start at any moment.  But about Natalie?  He had not heard from her through any channel whatever.  He had not the least idea whither she had gone.  Moreover, he gathered from Reitzei that her father—­who, in Reitzei’s opinion, could at once have discovered where she was—­refused to trouble himself in the matter, and, indeed, would not permit her name to be mentioned in his presence.