t seemed so irksome to him there. He was tortured, also, by
expectancy: the information imparted by M--r. Jules required
confirmation, and he had received no letters. He returned to the town,
and sat out the evening at the Kalitins'. It was easy for him to see,
that Marya Dmitrievna had risen in revolt against him; but he succeeded
in appeasing her somewhat by losing fifteen rubles to her at
picquet,--and he spent about half an hour alone with Liza, in spite of
the fact that her mother, no longer ago than the day before, had advised
her not to be too familiar with a man "_qui a un si grand ridicule_." He
found a change in her: she seemed, somehow, to have become more
thoughtful, she upbraided him for his absence, and asked him--would he
not go to church on the following morning (the next day was Sunday)?

"Go,"--she said to him, before he had succeeded in replying:--"we will
pray together for the repose of _her_ soul."--Then she added, that she
did not know what she ought to do,--she did not know whether she had the
right to make Panshin wait any longer for her decision.

"Why?"--asked Lavretzky.

"Because,"--said she: "I am already beginning to suspect what that
decision will be."

She declared that her head ached, and went off to her own room up-stairs,
irresolutely offering Lavretzky the tips of her fingers.

The next day, Lavretzky went to the morning service. Liza was already in
the church when he arrived. She observed him, although she did not turn
toward him. She prayed devoutly; her eyes sparkled softly, her head bent
and rose softly. He felt that she was praying for him also,--and a
wonderful emotion filled his soul. He felt happy, and somewhat
conscience-stricken. The decorously-standing congregation, the familiar
faces, the melodious chanting, the odour of the incense, the long,
slanting rays of light from the windows, the very gloom of the walls and
vaulted roof,--all spoke to his ear. He had not been in a church for a
long time, he had not appealed to God for a long time: and even now, he
did not utter any words of prayer,--he did not even pray without words,
but for a moment, at least, if not in body, certainly with all his mind,
he prostrated himself and bowed humbly to the very earth. He recalled
how, in his childhood, he had prayed in church on every occasion until he
became conscious of some one's cool touch on his brow; "this," he had
been accustomed to say to himself at that time, "is my guardian