t sorry for her death?"

"It is not only now that she has become dead for me."

"You are saying what is sinful. Don't be angry with me. You have
called me your friend. A friend may say anything. And it really seems
terrible to me. The expression on your face yesterday was not good to
see. Do you remember your complaining about her not long ago? And at
that very time, perhaps, she was already no longer among the
living. It is terrible. It is just as if it had been sent you as a
punishment."

Lavretsky laughed bitterly.

"You think so?--at all events I am free now."

Liza shuddered.

"Do not speak so any more. What use is your freedom to you? You should
not be thinking of that now, but of forgiveness--"

"I forgave her long ago," interrupted Lavretsky, with an impatient
gesture.

"No, I don't mean that," answered Liza, reddening; "you have not
understood me properly. It is you who ought to strive to get
pardoned."

"Who is there to pardon me?"

"Who? Why God. Who can pardon us except God?"

Lavretsky grasped her hand.

"Ah! Lizaveta Mikhailovna!" he exclaimed, "believe me, I have already
been punished enough--I have already expiated all, believe me."

"You cannot tell that," said Liza, in a low voice. "You forget. It was
not long ago that you and I were talking, and you were not willing to
forgive her."

Both of them walked along the alley for a time in silence.

"And about your daughter?" suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped
short.

Lavretsky shuddered.

"Oh! don't disturb yourself about her. I have already sent off letters
in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you--as you say--is
assured. You need not trouble yourself on that score."

Liza smiled sadly.

"But you are right," continued Lavretsky. "What am I to do with my
freedom--what use is it to me?"

"When did you get this paper?" asked Liza, without answering his
question.

"The day after your visit."

"And have not you--have not you even shed a tear?"

"No; I was thunderstruck. But whither should I look for tears? Should
I cry over the past? Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with
fire. Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved
to me that for me happiness had never really existed. What, then, had
I to cry for? Besides--who knows?--perhaps I should have been more
grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner."

"A fortnight!" replied Liza. "But what can have happened to make such