He hastened over to O——­and communicated the news to Lisa, requesting her to keep it secret for a time.  They walked in the garden; Lavretsky discussed his newly won freedom.

“Stop!” said Lisa, “don’t talk like that.  Of what use is your freedom to you?  You ought to be thinking of forgiveness.”

“I forgave her long ago.”

“You don’t understand!  You ought to be seeking to be forgiven.”

“You are right,” said Lavretsky after a pause; “what good is my freedom to me?”

“When did you get that paper?” said Lisa without heeding his question.

“The day after your visit.”

“And is it possible that you did not shed tears?”

“What is there to weep over now?  Though, indeed, who knows?  I might perhaps have been more grieved a fortnight sooner.”

“A fortnight?” said Lisa.  “But what has happened, then, in the last fortnight?”

Lavretsky made no reply, and suddenly Lisa flushed violently.

“Yes, yes! you guess why.  In the course of this fortnight I have come to know the value of a pure woman’s heart.  But I am glad I showed you that paper,” Lavretsky continued after a pause; “already I have grown used to hiding nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same confidence....”

Lavretsky was not a young man; he could not long delude himself as to the nature of the feeling inspired in him by Lisa.  He was brought that day to the final conviction that he loved her.

“Have I really nothing better to do,” he thought, “at the age of thirty-five, than to put my soul into a woman’s keeping again?  But Lisa is not like her; she would not demand degrading sacrifices from me; she would not tempt me away from my duties; she would herself incite me to hard, honest work, and we should walk hand in hand towards a noble aim.  That’s all very fine,” he concluded his reflections, “but the worst of it is that she does not in the least wish to walk hand in hand with me.  But she doesn’t in the least love Panshin either... a poor consolation!”

Painful days followed for Fedor Ivanitch.  He found himself in a continual fever.  Every morning he made for the post and tore open letters and papers; nowhere did he find confirmation or disproof of the fateful news.

Late one night he found himself wandering aimlessly around the outskirts of O——.  Rambling over the dewy grass he came across a narrow path leading to a little gate which he found open.  Wandering in, he found, to his amazement, that he was in the Kalitins’ garden.  In Lisa’s room a candle shone behind the white curtains; all else was dark.  The light vanished as he looked.

“Sleep well, my sweet girl,” he whispered, sitting motionless, his eyes fixed on the darkened window.  Suddenly a light appeared in one of the windows of the ground floor, then another.  Who could it be?  Lavretsky rose... he caught a glimpse of a well-known face.  Lisa entered the drawing-room—­she drew near the open door, and stood on the threshold, a light, slender figure, all in white.