complained to him of my apathy, of which I had said nothing.

"It seems, then, she has failed to tell me the principal thing," he said, with a smile, and shaking his head reproachfully at me.

"Why speak of it!" said I; "it is very stupid, and besides, it will pass away." It actually seemed to me at that moment that my sense of lassitude not only would pass away, but that it had already passed away, and that I had never suffered from it.

"It's unfortunate not to be able to endure solitude," said he. "Aren't you a grown-up young lady?"

"Of course I am," said I, with a laugh.

"Well, she's a poor kind of young lady who is lively only while she is admired, and, as soon as she is alone, loses her spirits and takes no interest in anything; all for mere show and nothing for reality." "You have a fine opinion of me," said I, for the sake of saying something.

"No!" said he, after a little silence. "It is not all in vain that you look like your father; there's something in you," and again his kind, penetrating eyes gave me a flattering look, and filled me with a strangely agreeable confusion.

Now for the first time I noticed that his face, which had impressed me as being so jovial, had a look peculiar to himself; serene at first, but afterwards becoming more and more thoughtful, and even rather gloomy.

"There is no reason and no propriety in your being down-hearted," said he. "You have your music, which you understand, your books, and your whole life lies before you; and now is the only time in which you can prepare yourself for it, so that you will have nothing to regret. In a year it may be too late."

He talked to me like a father or an uncle, and I was conscious that he had constantly to exercise selfcontrol not to look down on me.

I felt offended that he considered me beneath him, and at the same time it pleased me that he found it worth while for my sake, and my sake alone, to make an effort to show his friendship in this way.

The rest of the evening he talked business with Kátya.

"Well, good-bye, my dear friends," said he, getting up and coming over to me, and taking me by the hand.

"When shall we see you again?" inquired Kátya.

"This spring," was his reply. He still held my hand: "Now I am going to Danilovka”—that was our other estate. "I shall look into your affairs there, and make what arrangements I can; then I am going to Moscow on some business of my own, and then in the summer we shall be here again."

"Now, why must you be gone so long?" I asked, feeling terribly blue; in fact, I had hoped that we should see him every day, and suddenly I felt so depressed and sad that all my former unhappiness seemed to return. This must have been expressed in my eyes and voice.

"Try and busy yourself as much as you can, and don't get down-hearted," said he, in a tone which seemed to me altogether too cool and natural. "When spring comes, I shall make you pass your examination,” he added, dropping my hand, and not looking

at me.

In the anteroom, where we were standing while he put on his shuba, again his eyes seemed to search me. "It's no use for him to take so much trouble," said

I to myself; "I wonder if he thinks I like it to have him stare at me in that way. He is an excellent man, very, . . . but if only . . .

For a wonder, it was very late when Kátya and I went to bed, and we talked all the evening, not about him, but about how we should spend the coming summer, and where and how we should live next winter.

My bugbear of a question, why, did not recur to me. It seemed to me very simple and clear that one ought to live to be happy, and I imagined that the future would bring much happiness. Suddenly, as it were, our Pokrovsky house, so old and gloomy, presented itself to my imagination overflowing with life and light.

SPRING had now come.

II.

My former depression was gone, and its place was occupied by the dreamy melancholy of springtime, and by vague hopes and desires.

Though I lived in a healthier way than at the beginning of the winter, and occupied myself with my sister Sónya and music and reading, still I used often to go into the garden, and wander long, long, up and down the paths, or sit on the bench, my mind filled with all sorts of thoughts, hopes, and desires.

Sometimes, especially when there was a moon, I would sit at the window of my room all night long, and when morning came I would throw on a single garment, and often go, without waking Kátya, down into the garden and across the dewy grass to the pond; once, I even went out into the field, and, alone and in the night, made the entire circuit of the garden.

Now it is hard for me to recall and understand the illusions which at that time filled my imagination. Even when I succeed, I can scarcely believe that my dreams were made of such stuff, they were so strange and remote from the reality.

Toward the end of May, Sergyéï Mikháïlitch returned, as he had promised.

His first call was toward evening, and he took us entirely by surprise. We were sitting on the terrace and preparing to drink tea. The garden was already clothed in green, and the nightingales made

their haunt in every thicket on our place. The tufted branches of the lilac bushes were everywhere covered with white and purple, with a hint of flowers on the point of bursting into bloom. The foliage of the linden alley was translucent in the setting sun. A fresh, cool shadow lay across the terrace. The grass was already wet with the heavy fall of evening dew. In the yard back of the garden were heard the last sounds of day, the bustle of the cattle driven in from pasture. The simple-minded Nikon crossed in front of the terrace, along the little path, with his wateringpot, and the cooling stream from the nozzle soon began to make the broken soil dark around the stems of the dahlias and their supports.

Near us, on the terrace, on a white cloth, stood the brightly polished samovár, bubbling and boiling, together with cream, bunns, and cold meat. Kátya, with her plump hands, was dipping the teacups like a careful housewife. I could not wait for my tea, for I was hungry after my bath, and was eating a piece of bread spread with thick, fresh cream. I had on a gingham blouse with flowing sleeves, and my wet hair was covered with a handkerchief. Kátya was the first to see him through the window.

"Ah! Sergyéï Mikháïlitch! we were only just talking about you!"

I jumped up, and was going to run upstairs in order to change my dress, but he met me just as I was at the door.

"Now, what is the use of ceremony in the country?" said he, glancing, with a smile, at my head and the handkerchief. "You see, you are not ashamed to wear it before Grigóri, and I am no more than Gri

góri."