In the meantime the evening had arrived, and Maria Dmitrievna evinced a desire to return home.  With some difficulty the little girls were torn away from the lake, and got ready for the journey.  Lavretsky said he would accompany his guests half-way home, and ordered a horse to be saddled for him.  After seeing Maria Dmitrievna into her carriage he looked about for Lemm; but the old man could nowhere be found.  He had disappeared the moment the fishing was over, Anton slammed the carriage door to, with a strength remarkable at his age, and cried in a stern voice, “Drive on, coachman!” The carriage set off.  Maria Dmitrievna and Liza occupied the back seats; the two girls and the maid sat in front.

The evening was warm and still, and the windows were open on both sides.  Lavretsky rode close by the carriage on Liza’s side, resting a hand on the door—­he had thrown the reins on the neck of his easily trotting horse—­and now and then exchanged two or three words with the young girl.  The evening glow disappeared.  Night came on, but the air seemed to grow even warmer than before.  Maria Dmitrievna soon went to sleep; the little girls and the maid servant slept also.  Smoothly and rapidly the carriage rolled on.  As Liza bent forwards, the moon, which had only just made its appearance, lighted up her face, the fragrant night air breathed on her eyes and cheeks, and she felt herself happy.  Her hand rested on the door of the carriage by the side of Lavretsky’s.  He too felt himself happy as he floated on in the calm warmth of the night, never moving his eyes away from the good young face, listening to the young voice, clear even in its whispers, which spoke simple, good words.

It even escaped his notice for a time that he had gone more than half of the way.  Then he would not disturb Madame Kalitine, but he pressed Liza’s hand lightly and said, “We are friends now, are we not?” She nodded assent, and he pulled up his horse.  The carriage rolled on its way quietly swinging and curtseying.

Lavretsky returned home at a walk.  The magic of the summer night took possession of him.  All that spread around him seemed so wonderfully strange, and yet at the same time so well known and so dear.  Far and near all was still—­and the eye could see very far, though it could not distinguish much of what it saw—­but underneath that very stillness a young and flowering life made itself felt.

Lavretsky’s horse walked on vigorously, swinging itself steadily to right and left.  Its great black shadow moved by its side.  There was a sort of secret charm in the tramp of its hoofs, something strange and joyous in the noisy cry of the quails.  The stars disappeared in a kind of luminous mist.  The moon, not yet at its full, shone with steady lustre.  Its light spread in a blue stream over the sky, and fell in a streak of vaporous gold on the thin clouds which went past close at hand.