The young girl could not believe her ears; she thought she must be dreaming. "Oh, madam," she cried, "what you say is too beautiful to be true. I cannot understand it."
The baroness sighed. "Is my face then so cold," she asked, "and my voice so chill, that you cannot think me capable of wishing your happiness? But I will convince you." So saying, she drew the girl to her side on the sofa and took a letter from her bosom. "Look here," said she, "I have just received a letter from Russia, from my son, whom I have called home from St. Petersburg. I restrained my desire to open this letter, and brought it to you, that you might open it and read it to me. Are you aware what that means in a mother?"
Aranka bowed her head and touched the other's hand with her lips.
"There, take the letter," said the baroness, "and read it aloud. You know the writing?"
Aranka received the letter, but had no sooner looked at the address than the glad smile vanished from her face. She shook her head and turned her large eyes with surprised inquiry upon the baroness.
"What is the matter?" asked the latter.
"That is not his writing," stammered the girl.
"What do you say?" demanded the other. "Let me look again; I ought to know my son's handwriting. That is his B; that strong downward stroke, the manly firmness in every letter—"
"Are very cleverly imitated," interrupted Aranka, completing the sentence.
"But look again," urged the baroness; "the very words of the address—à ma très-adorable mère—can only have been written by my son. Open the letter and you will be convinced."