“Well, no wonder!” her brother hastened to interpose.  “I carried you off to Petersburg, and Fedor Ivanitch has been living all the time in the country.”

“Yes, and mamma died soon after then.”

“And Marfa Timofyevna,” observed Shurotchka.

“And Nastasya Karpovna,” added Lenotchka, “and Monsier Lemm.”

“What? is Lemm dead?” inquired Lavretsky.

“Yes,” replied young Kalitin, “he left here for Odessa; they say some one enticed him there; and there he died.”

“You don’t happen to know, . . . did he leave any music?”

“I don’t know; not very likely.”

All were silent and looked about them.  A slight cloud of melancholy flitted over all the young faces.

“But Matross is alive,” said Lenotchka suddenly.

“And Gedeonovsky,” added her brother.

At Gedeonovsky’s name a merry laugh broke out at once.

“Yes, he is alive, and as great a liar as ever,” Marya Dmitrievna’s son continued; “and only fancy, yesterday this madcap”—­pointing to the school-girl, his wife’s sister—­“put some pepper in his snuff-box.”

“How he did sneeze!” cried Lenotchka, and again there was a burst of unrestrained laughter.

“We have had news of Lisa lately,” observed young Kalitin, and again a hush fell upon all; “there was good news of her; she is recovering her health a little now.”

“She is still in the same convent?” Lavretsky asked, not without some effort.

“Yes, still in the same.”

“Does she write to you?”

“No, never; but we get news through other people.”

A sudden and profound silence followed.  “A good angel is passing over,” all were thinking.

“Wouldn’t you like to go into the garden?” said Kalitin, turning to Lavretsky; “it is very nice now, though we have let it run wild a little.”

Lavretsky went out into the garden, and the first thing that met his eyes was the very garden seat on which he had once spent with Lisa those few blissful moments, never repeated; it had grown black and warped; but he recognised it, and his soul was filled with that emotion, unequalled for sweetness and for bitterness—­the emotion of keen sorrow for vanished youth, for the happiness which has once been possessed.

He walked along the avenues with the young people; the lime-trees looked hardly older or taller in the eight years, but their shade was thicker; on the other hand, all the bushes had sprung up, the raspberry bushes had grown strong, the hazels were tangled thicket, and from all sides rose the fresh scent of the trees and grass and lilac.

“This would be a nice place for Puss-in-the-Corner,” cried Lenotchka suddenly, as they came upon a small green lawn, surrounded by lime-trees, “and we are just five, too.”

“Have you forgotten Fedor Ivanitch?” replied her brother, . . . “or didn’t you count yourself?”

Lenotchka blushed slightly.