tion
with me--I don't know her; but when I'm beside her I feel she's
a striking, exceptional creature, full of intelligence and lofty
aspirations. She is religious, and you cannot imagine how deeply
this touches me and exalts her in my eyes. On that point I am ready
to argue with you endlessly. You may be right, to your thinking;
but, still, I love to see her praying in church. She is a provincial,
but she was educated in Moscow. She loves our Moscow; she dresses
in the Moscow style, and I love her for that--love her, love her
. . . . I see you frowning and getting up to read me a long lecture
on what love is, and what sort of woman one can love, and what sort
one cannot, and so on, and so on. But, dear Kostya, before I was
in love I, too, knew quite well what love was.

"My sister thanks you for your message. She often recalls how she
used to take Kostya Kotchevoy to the preparatory class, and never
speaks of you except as _poor Kostya_, as she still thinks of you
as the little orphan boy she remembers. And so, poor orphan, I'm
in love. While it's a secret, don't say anything to a 'certain
person.' I think it will all come right of itself, or, as the footman
says in Tolstoy, will 'come round.'"

When he had finished his letter Laptev went to bed. He was so tired
that he couldn't keep his eyes open, but for some reason he could
not get to sleep; the noise in the street seemed to prevent him.
The cattle were driven by to the blowing of a horn, and soon
afterwards the bells began ringing for early mass. At one minute a
cart drove by creaking; at the next, he heard the voice of some
woman going to market. And the sparrows twittered the whole time.

II

The next morning was a cheerful one; it was a holiday. At ten o'clock
Nina Fyodorovna, wearing a brown dress and with her hair neatly
arranged, was led into the drawing-room, supported on each side.
There she walked about a little and stood by the open window, and
her smile was broad and naive, and, looking at her, one recalled a
local artist, a great drunkard, who wanted her to sit to him for a
picture of the Russian carnival. And all of them--the children,
the servants, her brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and she herself--
were suddenly convinced, that she was certainly going to get well.
With shrieks of laughter the children ran after their uncle, chasing
him and catching him, and filling the house with noise.

People called to ask how she was, brought her holy bread