newspapers that had been lying on
the table unopened for a fortnight, Lavretsky suddenly came upon a
paragraph announcing "Mournful intelligence: That charming, fascinating
Moscow lady, Mme. Lavretsky, died suddenly yesterday."

He hastened over to O----and communicated the news to Lisa, requesting
her to keep it secret for a time. They walked in the garden; Lavretsky
discussed his newly won freedom.

"Stop!" said Lisa, "don't talk like that. Of what use is your freedom to
you? You ought to be thinking of forgiveness."

"I forgave her long ago."

"You don't understand! You ought to be seeking to be forgiven."

"You are right," said Lavretsky after a pause; "what good is my freedom
to me?"

"When did you get that paper?" said Lisa without heeding his question.

"The day after your visit."

"And is it possible that you did not shed tears?"

"What is there to weep over now? Though, indeed, who knows? I might
perhaps have been more grieved a fortnight sooner."

"A fortnight?" said Lisa. "But what has happened, then, in the last
fortnight?"

Lavretsky made no reply, and suddenly Lisa flushed violently.

"Yes, yes! you guess why. In the course of this fortnight I have come to
know the value of a pure woman's heart. But I am glad I showed you that
paper," Lavretsky continued after a pause; "already I have grown used to
hiding nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same
confidence...."

Lavretsky was not a young man; he could not long delude himself as to
the nature of the feeling inspired in him by Lisa. He was brought that
day to the final conviction that he loved her.

"Have I really nothing better to do," he thought, "at the age of
thirty-five, than to put my soul into a woman's keeping again? But Lisa
is not like her; she would not demand degrading sacrifices from me; she
would not tempt me away from my duties; she would herself incite me to
hard, honest work, and we should walk hand in hand towards a noble aim.
That's all very fine," he concluded his reflections, "but the worst of
it is that she does not in the least wish to walk hand in hand with me.
But she doesn't in the least love Panshin either... a poor consolation!"

Painful days followed for Fedor Ivanitch. He found himself in a
continual fever. Every morning he made for the post and tore open
letters and papers; nowhere did he find confirmation or disproof of the
fateful news.

Late one night he found himself wandering ai