He arrived toward the end of March, on Good Friday, in the season of bad roads, when the rain was falling in torrents, and was wet all through, and chilled to the marrow of his bones, but courageous and excited, as he always felt at that time of the year.

“I wonder if she is still there?” he thought, as he drove into the familiar court-yard of the old manor, which was covered with snow that fell from the roofs, and was surrounded by a low brick wall.  He expected that the ringing of the bell would bring her running to meet him, but on the perron of the servants’ quarters appeared two bare-footed women with tucked-up skirts, carrying buckets, who were apparently scrubbing floors.  She was not on the front perron, either; only Timon, the lackey, came forth in an apron, also apparently occupied with cleaning.  Sophia Ivanovna came into the ante-chamber, attired in a silk dress and cap.

“How glad I am that you came!” said Sophia Ivanovna.  “Masheuka[B] is somewhat ill.  We were to church, receiving the sacrament.  She is very tired.”

“I congratulate you, Aunt Sonia,"[C] said Nekhludoff, kissing the hand of Sophia Ivanovna.  “Pardon me, I have soiled you.”

“Go to your room.  You are wet all through.  Oh, what a mustache!  Katiousha!  Katiousha!  Bring him some coffee quickly.”

“All right!” responded a familiar, pleasant voice.  Nekhludoff’s heart fluttered.  “She is here!” To him it was like the sun rising from behind the clouds, and he cheerfully went with Timon to his old room to change his clothing.

Nekhludoff wished to ask Timon about Katiousha.  Was she well?  How did she fare?  Was she not engaged to be married?  But Timon was so respectful, and at the same time so rigid; he so strictly insisted on himself pouring the water from the pitcher over Nekhludoff’s hands, that the latter could not decide to ask him about Katiousha, and only inquired about his grand-children, about the old stallion, about the watch-dog Polkan.  They were all well, except Polkan, who had gone mad the previous year.

After he had thrown off his wet clothes, and as he was about to dress himself, Nekhludoff heard quick steps and a rapping at the door.  He recognized both the steps and the rapping.  Only she walked and rapped thus.

It was Katiousha—­the same Katiousha—­only more lovely than before.  The naive, smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes still looked up; she wore a clean white apron, as before.  She brought a perfumed piece of soap, just taken from the wrapper, and two towels—­one Russian and the other Turkish.  The freshly unpacked soap, the towels and she herself, were all equally clean, fresh, pure and pleasant.  The lovely, firm, red lips became creased from unrestrainable happiness at sight of him.

“How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovich?” she said, with difficulty, her face becoming flushed.

“How art—­how are you?” He did not know whether to “thou” her or not, and became as red in the face as she was.[D] “Are you well?”