“What a long time it is since we saw you last!” naively remarked Lenochka; “and we haven’t seen Varvara Pavlovna either.”

“No wonder!” her brother hastily interrupted her—­“I took you away to St. Petersburg; but Fedor Ivanovich has lived all the time on his estate.”

“Yes, and mamma too is dead, since then.”

“And Marfa Timofeevna,” said Shurochka.

“And Nastasia Corpovna,” continued Lenochka, “and Monsieur Lemm.”

“What? is Lemm dead too?” asked Lavretsky.

“Yes,” answered young Kalitine.  “He went away from here to Odessa.  Some one is said to have persuaded him to go there, and there he died.”

“You don’t happen to know if he left any music behind?”

“I don’t know, but I should scarcely think so.”

A general silence ensued, and each one of the party looked at the others.  A shade of sadness swept over all the youthful faces.

“But Matros is alive,” suddenly cried Lenochka.

“And Gedeonovsky is alive,” added her brother.

The name of Gedeonovsky at once called forth a merry laugh.

“Yes, he is still alive; and he tells stories just as he used to do,” continued the young Kalitine—­“only fancy! this mad-cap here” (pointing to his wife’s sister the Institute-girl) “put a quantity of pepper into his snuff-box yesterday.”

“How he did sneeze!” exclaimed Lenochka—­and irrepressible laughter again broke out on all sides.

“We had news of Liza the other day,” said young Kalitine.  And again silence fell upon all the circle.  “She is going on well—­her health is gradually being restored now.”

“Is she still in the same convent?” Lavretsky asked, not without an effort.

“Yes.”

“Does she ever write to you?”

“No, never.  We get news of her from other quarters.”

A profound silence suddenly ensued.  “An angel has noiselessly flown past,” they all thought.

“Won’t you go into the garden?” said Kalitine, addressing Lavretsky.  “It is very pleasant now, although we have neglected it a little.”

Lavretsky went into the garden, and the first thing he saw there was that very bench on which he and Liza had once passed a few happy moments—­moments that never repeated themselves.  It had grown black and warped, but still he recognized it, and that feeling took possession of his heart which is unequalled as well for sweetness as for bitterness—­the feeling of lively regret, for vanished youth, for once familiar happiness.

He walked by the side of the young people along the alleys.  The lime-trees looked older than before, having grown a little taller during the last eight years, and casting a denser shade.  All the underwood, also, had grown higher, and the raspberry-bushes had spread vigorously, and the hazel copse was thickly tangled.  From every side exhaled a fresh odor from the forest and the wood, from the grass and the lilacs.