into the fields.

The night was still and clear, although there was no moon. For a long
time Lavretsky wandered across the dewy grass. A narrow footpath lay
in his way, and he followed it. It led him to a long hedge, in which
there was a wicket gate. Without knowing why he did so, he tried to
push it open; with a faint creak it did open, just as if it had been
awaiting the touch of his hand. Lavretsky found himself in a garden,
took a few steps along a lime-tree alley, and suddenly stopped short
in utter amazement. He saw that he was in the Kalitines' garden.

A thick hazel bush close at hand flung a black patch of shadow on the
ground. Into this he quickly passed, and there stood for some time
without stirring from the spot, inwardly wondering and from time to
time shrugging his shoulders. "This has not happened without some
purpose," he thought.

Around all was still. From the house not the slightest sound reached
him. He began cautiously to advance. At the corner of an alley all the
house suddenly burst upon him with its dusky facade. In two windows
only on the upper story were lights glimmering. In Liza's apartment a
candle was burning behind the white blind, and in Marfa Timofeevna's
bed-room glowed the red flame of the small lamp hanging in front of
the sacred picture, on the gilded cover of which it was reflected in
steady light. Down below, the door leading on to the balcony gaped
wide open.

Lavretsky sat down on a wooden bench, rested his head on his hand, and
began looking at that door, and at Liza's window. Midnight sounded
in the town; in the house a little clock feebly struck twelve. The
watchman beat the hour with quick strokes on his board. Lavretsky
thought of nothing, expected nothing. It was pleasant to him to feel
himself near Liza, to sit in her garden, and on the bench where she
also often sat.

The light disappeared from Liza's room.

"A quiet night to you, dear girl," whispered Lavretsky, still sitting
where he was without moving, and not taking his eyes off the darkened
window.

Suddenly a light appeared at one of the windows of the lower story,
crossed to another window, and then to a third. Some one was carrying
a candle through the room. "Can it be Liza? It cannot be," thought
Lavretsky. He rose. A well-known face glimmered in the darkness, and
Liza appeared in the drawing-room, wearing a white dress, her hair
hanging loosely about her shoulders. Quietly approaching the table,
she l