by Lavretsky and Lisa; probably this was because they paid less attention than the others to the angling, and allowed their floats to swim back right up to the bank.  The high reddish reeds rustled quietly around, the still water shone quietly before them, and quietly too they talked together.  Lisa was standing on a small raft; Lavretsky sat on the inclined trunk of a willow; Lisa wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a broad ribbon, also white; her straw hat was hanging on one hand, and in the other with some effort she held up the crooked rod.  Lavretsky gazed at her pure, somewhat severe profile, at her hair drawn back behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which glowed like a little child’s, and thought, “Oh, how sweet you are, bending over my pond!” Lisa did not turn to him, but looked at the water, half frowning, to keep the sun out of her eyes, half smiling.  The shade of the lime-tree near fell upon both.

“Do you know,” began Lavretsky, “I have been thinking over our last conversation a great deal, and have come to the conclusion that you are exceedingly good.”

“That was not at all my intention in-----” Lisa was beginning to reply,
and she was overcome with embarrassment.

“You are good,” repeated Lavretsky.  “I am a rough fellow, but I feel that every one must love you.  There’s Lemm for instance; he is simply in love with you.”

Lisa’s brows did not exactly frown, they contracted slightly; it always happened with her when she heard something disagreeable to her.

“I was very sorry for him to-day,” Lavretsky added, “with his unsuccessful song.  To be young and to fail is bearable; but to be old and not be successful is hard to bear.  And how mortifying it is to feel that one’s forces are deserting one!  It is hard for an old man to bear such blows! . . .  Be careful, you have a bite . . . .  They say,” added Lavretsky after a short pause, “that Vladimir Nikolaitch has written a very pretty song.”

“Yes,” replied Lisa, “it is only a trifle, but not bad.”

“And what do you think,” inquired Lavretsky; “is he a good musician?”

“I think he has great talent for music; but so far he has not worked at it, as he should.”

“Ah!  And is he a good sort of man?”

Lisa laughed and glanced quickly at Fedor Ivanitch.

“What a queer question!” she exclaimed, drawing up her line and throwing it in again further off.

“Why is it queer?  I ask you about him, as one who has only lately come here, as a relation.”

“A relation?”

“Yes.  I am, it seems, a sort of uncle of yours?”

“Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart,” said Lisa, “and he is clever; maman likes him very much.”

“And do you like him?”

“He is nice; why should I not like him?”

“Ah!” Lavretsky uttered and ceased speaking.  A half-mournful, half-ironical expression passed over his face.  His steadfast gaze embarrassed Lisa, but he went on smiling.—­“Well, God grant them happiness!” he muttered at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.