merrily. Kister responded willingly, though he awaited explanations with impatience…. Taniusha walked behind at a respectful distance, only from time to time stealing a sly glance at her young lady.

‘You’re not angry with me, Fyodor Fedoritch?’ queried Masha.

‘With you, Marya Sergievna? Why, whatever for?’

‘The day before yesterday… don’t you remember?’

‘You were out of humour… that was all.’

‘What are we walking in single file for? Give me your arm. That’s right…. You were out of humour too.’

‘Yes, I was too.’

‘But to-day I’m in good humour, eh?’

‘Yes, I think so, to-day…’

‘And do you know why? Because…’

Masha nodded her head gravely. ‘Well, I know why…. Because I am with you,’ she added, not looking at Kister.

Kister softly pressed her hand.

‘But why don’t you question me?…’ Masha murmured in an undertone.

‘What about?’

‘Oh, don’t pretend… about my letter.’

‘I was waiting for…’

‘That’s just why I am happy with you,’ Masha interrupted him impulsively: ‘because you are a gentle, good-hearted person, because you are incapable… parceque vous avez de la délicatesse. One can say that to you: you understand French.’

Kister did understand French, but he did not in the least understand Masha.

‘Pick me that flower, that one… how pretty it is!’ Masha admired it, and suddenly, swiftly withdrawing her hand from his arm, with an anxious smile she began carefully sticking the tender stalk in the buttonhole of Kister’s coat. Her slender fingers almost touched his lips. He looked at the fingers and then at her. She nodded her head to him as though to say ‘you may.’… Kister bent down and kissed the tips of her gloves.

Meanwhile they drew near the already familiar copse. Masha became suddenly more thoughtful, and at last kept silent altogether. They came to the very place where Lutchkov had waited for her. The trampled grass had not yet grown straight again; the broken sapling had not yet withered, its little leaves were only just beginning to curl up and fade. Masha stared about her, and turned quickly to Kister.

‘Do you know why I have brought you here?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Don’t you know? Why is it you haven’t told me anything about your friend Lutchkov to-day? You always praise him so…’

Kister dropped his eyes, and did not speak.

‘Do you know,’ Masha brought out with some effort, ‘that I made… an appointment… to meet him here… yesterday?’

‘I know that,’ Kister rejoined hurriedly.

‘You know it?… Ah! now I see why the day before yesterday… Mr. Lutchkov was in a hurry it seems to boast of his conquest.’

Kister was about to answer….

‘Don’t speak, don’t say anything in opposition…. I know he’s your friend. You are capable of taking his part. You knew, Kister, you knew…. How was it you didn’t prevent me from acting so stupidly? Why didn’t you box my ears, as if I were a child? You knew… and didn’t you care?’

‘But what right had I…’

‘What right!… the right of a friend. But he too is your friend…. I’m ashamed, Kister…. He your friend…. That man behaved to me yesterday, as if…’

Masha turned away. Kister’s eyes flamed; he turned pale.

‘Oh, never mind, don’t be angry…. Listen, Fyodor Fedoritch, don’t be angry. It’s all for the best. I am very glad of yesterday’s explanation… yes, that’s just what it was,’ added Masha. ‘What do you suppose I am telling you about it for? To complain of Mr. Lutchkov? Nonsense! I’ve forgotten about him. But I have done you a wrong, my good friend…. I want to speak openly to you, to ask your forgiveness… your advice. You have accustomed me to frankness; I am at ease with you…. You are not a Mr. Lutchkov!’

‘Lutchkov is clumsy and coarse,’ Kister brought out with difficulty; ‘but…’

‘Why but? Aren’t you ashamed to say but? He is coarse, and clumsy, and ill-natured, and conceited…. Do you hear?—and, not but.’

‘You are speaking under the influence of anger, Marya Sergievna,’ Kister observed mournfully.

‘Anger? A strange sort of anger! Look at me; are people like this when they ‘re angry? Listen,’ pursued Masha; ‘you may think what you like of me… but if you imagine I am flirting with you to-day from pique, well… well…’ (tears stood in her eyes)’I shall be angry in earnest.’

‘Do be open with me, Marya Sergievna…’

‘O, silly fellow! how slow you are! Why, look at me, am I not open with you, don’t you see right through me?’

‘Oh, very well… yes; I believe you,’ Kister said with a smile, seeing with what anxious insistence she tried to catch his eyes. ‘But tell me, what induced you to arrange to meet Lutchkov?’

‘What induced me? I really don’t know. He wanted to speak to me alone. I fancied he had never had time, never had an opportunity to speak freely. He has spoken freely now! Do you know, he may be an extraordinary man, but he’s a fool, really…. He doesn’t know how to put two words together. He’s simply an ignoramus. Though, indeed, I don’t blame him much… he might suppose I was a giddy, mad, worthless girl. I hardly ever talked to him…. He did excite my curiosity, certainly, but I imagined that a man who was worthy of being your friend…’

‘Don’t, please, speak of him as my friend,’ Kister interposed.

‘No, no, I don’t want to separate you.’

‘Oh, my God, for you I’m ready to sacrifice more than a friend…. Everything is over between me and Mr. Lutchkov,’ Kister added hurriedly.

Masha looked intently into his face.

‘Well, enough of him,’ she said. ‘Don’t let us talk of him. It’s a lesson to me for the future. It’s I that am to blame. For several months past I have almost every day seen a man who is good, clever, bright, friendly who…’ (Masha was confused, and stammered) ‘who, I think, cared… a little… for me too… and I like a fool,’ she went on quickly, ‘preferred to him… no, no, I didn’t prefer him, but…’

She drooped her head, and ceased speaking in confusion.

Kister was in a sort of terror. ‘It can’t be!’ he kept repeating to himself.

‘Marya Sergievna!’ he began at last.

Masha lifted her head, and turned upon him eyes heavy with unshed tears.

‘You don’t guess of whom I am speaking?’ she asked.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Kister held out his hand. Masha at once clutched it warmly.

‘You are my friend as before, aren’t you?… Why don’t you answer?’

‘I am your friend, you know that,’ he murmured.

‘And you are not hard on me? You forgive me?… You understand me? You’re not laughing at a girl who made an appointment only yesterday with one man, and to-day is talking to another, as I am talking to you…. You’re not laughing at me, are you?…’ Masha’s face glowed crimson, she clung with both hands to Kister’s hand….

‘Laugh at you,’ answered Kister: ‘I… I… why, I love you… I love you,’ he cried.

Masha hid her face.

‘Surely you’ve long known that I love you, Marya Sergievna?’

X

Three weeks after this interview, Kister was sitting alone in his room, writing the following letter to his mother:—

Dearest Mother!—I make haste to share my great happiness with you; I am going to get married. This news will probably only surprise you from my not having, in my previous letters, even hinted at so important a change in my life—and you know that I am used to sharing all my feelings, my joys and my sorrows, with you. My reasons for silence are not easy to explain to you. To begin with, I did not know till lately that I was loved; and on my own side too, it is only lately that I have realised myself all the strength of my own feeling. In one of my first letters from here, I wrote to you of our neighbours, the Perekatovs; I am engaged to their only daughter, Marya. I am thoroughly convinced that we shall both be happy. My feeling for her is not a fleeting passion, but a deep and genuine emotion, in which friendship is mingled with love. Her bright, gentle disposition is in perfect harmony with my tastes. She is well-educated, clever, plays the piano splendidly…. If you could only see her! I enclose her portrait sketched by me. I need hardly say she is a hundred times better-looking than her portrait. Masha loves you already, like a daughter, and is eagerly looking forward to seeing you. I mean to retire, to settle in the country, and to go in for farming. Mr. Perekatov has a property of four hundred serfs in excellent condition. You see that even from the material point of view, you cannot but approve of my plans. I will get leave and come to Moscow and to you. Expect me in a fortnight, not later. My own dearest mother, how happy I am!… Kiss me…’ and so on.

Kister folded and sealed the letter, got up, went to the window, lighted a pipe, thought a little, and returned to the table. He took out a small sheet of notepaper, carefully dipped his pen into the ink, but for a long while he did not begin to write, knitted his brows, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, bit the end of his pen…. At last he made up his mind, and in the course of a quarter of an hour he had composed the following:

‘Dear Avdey Ivanovitch,—Since the day of your last visit (that is, for three weeks) you have sent me no message, have not said a word to me, and have seemed to avoid meeting me. Every one is, undoubtedly, free to act as he pleases; you have chosen to break off our acquaintance, and I do not, believe me, in