Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother’s house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face. She stopped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless. Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. “Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,” observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; “how nice it smells!” Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt. “How strange you should use that word!” she murmured. “What word, eh?” the old lady returned quickly. “What do you mean? This is horrible,” she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa’s little bed; “it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can’t pretend not to notice any longer; I can’t see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can’t I can’t!” “Why, what is the matter, auntie?” said Lisa, “it’s nothing.” “Nothing!” cried Marfa Timofyevna; “you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?--Nothing! do you suppose I don’t know all?” “It will pass off, auntie; give me time.” “It will pass off, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he’s an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don’t dispute he’s a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity.” “I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already.”