making a great sign of the cross.  A peasant with a bushy beard and a surly face, dishevelled and unkempt, came into the church, and at once fell on both knees, and began directly crossing himself in haste, bending back his head with a shake after each prostration.  Such bitter grief was expressed in his face, and in all his actions, that Lavretsky made up his mind to go up to him and ask him what was wrong.  The peasant timidly and morosely started back, looked at him. . . .  “My son is dead,” he articulated quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth.  “What could replace the consolations of the Church to them?” thought Lavretsky; and he tried! himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts were far away. he kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come.  The church began to be full of people; but still she was not there.  The service commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward—­and suddenly caught sight of Lisa.  She had com before him, but he had not seen her; she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither moved nor looked round.  Lavretsky did not take his eyes off he till the very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her.  The people began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were waiting for Lavretsky to go out. at last she crossed herself for the last time and went out—­there was only a maid with her—­not turning round.  Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil over her face.

“Good-morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he said aloud with assumed carelessness:  “may I accompany you?”

She made no reply; he walked beside her.

“Are you content with me?” he asked her, dropping his voice.  “Have you heard what happened yesterday?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied in a whisper, “that was well.”  And she went still more quickly.

“Are you content?”

Lisa only bent her head in assent.

“Fedor Ivanitch,” she began in a calm but faint voice, “I wanted to beg you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may see each other again later—­sometime—­in a year.  But now, do this for my sake; fulfil my request, for God’s sake.”

“I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?”

“Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now . . . .  But already you are so far from me.  And not only you, but—­”

“Speak out, I entreat you!” cried Lavretsky, “what do you mean?”

“You will hear perhaps . . . but whatever it may be, forget . . . no, do not forget; remember me.”

“Me forget you—­”

“That’s enough, good-bye.  Do not come after me.”

“Lisa!” Lavretsky was beginning.

“Good-bye, good-bye!” she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward.  Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street.  He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.