Suddenly the light appeared in one of the windows of the ground-floor, then changed into another, and a third . . . .  Some one was walking through the rooms with a candle.  “Can it be Lisa?  It cannot be.”  Lavretsky got up . . . .  He caught a glimpse of a well-known face—­Lisa came into the drawing-room.  In a white gown, her plaits hanging loose on her shoulders, she went quietly up to the table, bent over it, put down the candle, and began looking for something.  Then turning round facing the garden, she drew near the open door, and stood on the threshold, a light slender figure all in white.  A shiver passed over Lavretsky.

“Lisa!” broke hardly audibly from his lips.

She started and began to gaze into the darkness.

“Lisa!” Lavretsky repeated louder, and he came out of the shadow of the avenue.

Lisa raised her head in alarm, and shrank back.  She had recognised him.  He called to her a third time, and stretched out his hands to her.  She came away from the door and stepped into the garden.

“Is it you?” she said.  “You here?”

“I—­I—­listen to me,” whispered Lavretsky, and seizing her hand he led her to the seat.

She followed him without resistance, her pale face, her fixed eyes, and all her gestures expressed an unutterable bewilderment.  Lavretsky made her sit down and stood before her.

“I did not mean to come here,” he began.  “Something brought me . . . .  I—­I love you,” he uttered in involuntary terror.

Lisa slowly looked at him.  It seemed as though she only at that instant knew where she was and what was happening.  She tried to get up, she could no, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Lisa,” murmured Lavretsky.  “Lisa,” he repeated, and fell at her feet.

Her shoulders began to heave slightly; the fingers of her pale hands were pressed more closely to her face.

“What is it?” Lavretsky urged, and he heard a subdued sob.  His heart stood still . . . .  He knew the meaning of those tears.  “Can it be that you love me?” he whispered, and caressed her knees.

“Get up,” he heard her voice, “get up, Fedor Ivanitch.  What are we doing?”

He got up and sat beside her on the seat.  She was not weeping now, and she looked at him steadfastly with her wet eyes.

“It frightens me:  what are we doing?” she repeated.

“I love you,” he said again.  “I am ready to devote my whole life to you.”

She shuddered again, as though something had stung her, and lifted her eyes towards heaven.

All that is in God’s hands,” she said.

“But you love me, Lisa?  We shall be happy.”  She dropped her eyes; he softly drew her to him, and her head sank on to his shoulder . . . .  He bent his head a little and touched her pale lips.