w, could not endure
this second separation. Without a murmur, at the end of a few days,
she quietly passed away.

In the course of her whole life she had never been able to resist any
thing; and so with her illness, also, she did not struggle. When she
could no longer speak, and the shadows of death already lay on her
face, her features still retained their old expression of patient
perplexity, of unruffled and submissive sweetness. With her usual
silent humility, she gazed at Glafira; and as Anna Pavlovna on her
death-bed had kissed the hand of Peter Andreich, so she pressed her
lips to Glafira's hand, as she confided to Glafira's care her only
child. So did this good and quiet being end her earthly career. Like a
shrub torn from its native soil, and the next moment flung aside, its
roots upturned to the sun, she withered and disappeared, leaving no
trace behind, and no one to grieve for her. It is true that her maids
regretted her, and so did Peter Andreich. The old man missed her
kindly face, her silent presence. "Forgive--farewell--my quiet one!"
he said, as he took leave of her for the last time, in the church. He
wept as he threw a handful of earth into her grave.

He did not long survive her--not more than five years. In the winter
of 1819, he died peacefully in Moscow, whither he had gone with
Glafira and his grandson. In his will he desired to be buried by the
side of Anna Pavlovna and "Malasha."[A]

[Footnote A: Diminutive of Malania.]

Ivan Petrovich was at that time amusing himself in Paris, having
retired from the service soon after the year 1815. On receiving the
news of his father's death, he determined to return to Russia. The
organization of his property had to be considered. Besides, according
to Glafira's letter, Fedia had finished his twelfth year; and the time
had come for taking serious thought about his education.

X.

Ivan Petrovich returned to Russia an Anglomaniac. Short hair, starched
frills, a pea-green, long-skirted coat with a number of little
collars; a soar expression of countenance, something trenchant and
at the same time careless in his demeanor, an utterance through
the teeth, an abrupt wooden laugh, an absence of smile, a habit of
conversing only on political or politico-economical subjects, a
passion for under-done roast beef and port wine--every thing in him
breathed, so to speak, of Great Britain. He seemed entirely imbued by
its spirit. But strange to say, while b