He found a change in her.  She seemed to have become more contemplative.  She blamed him for stopping away; and she asked him if he would not go to church the next day—­the next day being Sunday.

“Do come,” she continued, before he had time to answer.  “We will pray together for the repose of her soul.”  Then she added that she did not know what she ought to do—­that she did not know whether she had any right to make Panshine wait longer for her decision.

“Why?” asked Lavretsky.

“Because,” she replied, “I begin to suspect by this time what that decision will be.”

Then she said that she had a headache, and went to her room, after irresolutely holding out the ends of her fingers to Lavretsky.

The next day Lavretsky went to morning service.  Liza was already in the church when he entered.  He remarked her, though she did not look towards him.  She prayed fervently; her eyes shone with a quiet light; quietly she bowed and lifted her head.

He felt that she was praying for him also, and a strange emotion filled his soul.  The people standing gravely around, the familiar faces, the harmonious chant, the odor of the incense, the long rays slanting through the windows, the very sombreness of the walls and arches—­all appealed to his heart.  It was long since he had been in church—­long since he had turned his thoughts to God.  And even now he did not utter any words of prayer—­he did not even pray without words; but nevertheless, for a moment, if not in body, at least in mind, he bowed clown and bent himself humbly to the ground.  He remembered how, in the days of his childhood, he always used to pray in church till he felt on his forehead something like a kind of light touch.  “That” he used then to think, “is my guardian angel visiting me and pressing on me the seal of election.”  He looked at Liza.  “It is you who have brought me here,” he thought.  “Touch me—­touch my soul!” Meanwhile, she went on quietly praying.  Her face seemed to him to be joyous, and once more he felt softened, and he asked, for another’s soul, rest—­for his own, pardon.  They met outside in the porch, and she received him with a friendly look of serious happiness.  The sun brightly lit up the fresh grass in the church-yard and the many-colored dresses and kerchiefs of the women.  The bells of the neighboring churches sounded on high; the sparrows chirped on the walls.  Lavretsky stood by, smiling and bare-headed; a light breeze played with his hair and Liza’s, and with the ends of Liza’s bonnet strings.  He seated Liza and her companion Lenochka, in the carriage, gave away all the change he had about him to the beggars, and then strolled slowly home.

XXX.

The days which followed were days of heaviness for Lavretsky.  He felt himself in a perpetual fever.  Every morning he went to the post, and impatiently tore open his letters and newspapers; but in none of them did he find anything which could confirm or contradict that rumor, on the truth of which he felt that so much now depended.  At times he grew disgusted with himself.  “What am I,” he then would think, “who am waiting here, as a raven waits for blood, for certain intelligence of my wife’s death?”