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.

"But would Fedor Ivanitch, at his age-----" she began.

"Please, play your games," Lavretsky hastened to interpose; "don't pay
attention to me. I shall be happier myself, when I am sure I am not in
your way. And there's no need for you to entertain me; we old fellows
have an occupation which you know nothing of yet, and which no amusement
can replace--our memories."

The young people listened to Lavretsky with polite but rather ironical
respect--as though a teacher were giving them a lesson--and suddenly
they all dispersed, and ran to the lawn; four stood near trees, one in
the middle, and the game began.

And Lavretsky went back into the house, went into the dining-room, drew
near the piano and touched one of the keys; it gave out a faint but
clear sound; on that note had begun the inspired melody with which long
ago on that same happy night Lemm, the dead Lemm, had thrown him into
such transports. Then Lavretsky went into the drawing-room, and for a
long time he did not leave it; in that room where he had so often seen
Lisa, her image rose most vividly before him; he seemed to feel the
traces of her presence round him; but his grief for her was crushing,
not ea