sky's departure, Panshin
made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her
in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a
late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the
garden re-echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French
talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin; when he took
leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back
very soon--and he kept his word.

Chapter XLV

Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother's house, a
clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers
in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a
book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the
nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church
where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order
more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, 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 Timofy