looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand.  All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face.  She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.

Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position.  Lisa did not observe her entrance.  The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door.  Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.

“Ah!  I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,” observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; “how nice it smells!”

Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.

“How strange you should use that word!” she murmured.

“What word, eh?” the old lady returned quickly.  “What do you mean?  This is horrible,” she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa’s little bed; “it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can’t pretend not to notice any longer; I can’t see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can’t I can’t!”

“Why, what is the matter, auntie?” said Lisa, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing!” cried Marfa Timofyevna; “you may tell that to others but not to me.  Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears?  Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?—­Nothing! do you suppose I don’t know all?”

“It will pass off, auntie; give me time.”

“It will pass of, but when?  Good God!  Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he’s an old man, Lisa, darling.  There, I don’t dispute he’s a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity.”

“I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already.”

“Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you,” Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief.  “It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow.  Ah, my darling, the only thing that can’t be cured is death.  You only say to yourself now:  “I won’t give in to it—­so there!” and you will be surprised yourself how soon, how easily it will pass of.  Only have patience.”

“Auntie,” returned Lisa, “it has passed off already, it is all over.”

“Passed! how has it passed?  Why, your poor little nose has grown sharp already and you say it is over.  A fine way of getting over it!”