the exception of one tattered little old book, in which his grandfather, Piotr Andreitch, had jotted down, now--"Celebration in the city of Saint Petersburg of the peace concluded with the Turkish Empire by his Illustriousness Prince Alexander Alexandrovitch Prozorovsky"; now a recipe for a decoction for the chest, with the comment: "This instruction was given to Generaless Praskovya Feodorovna Saltykoff, by Feodor Avksentievitch, Archpriest of the Church of the Life-giving Trinity"; again, some item of political news, like the following: "In the '_Moscow News_,' it is announced that Premier-Major Mikhail Petrovitch Kolytcheff has died. Was not he the son of Piotr Vasilievitch Kolytcheff?" Lavretzky also found several ancient calendars and dream-books, and the mystical works of Mr. Ambodik; many memories were awakened in him by the long-forgotten but familiar "Symbols and Emblems." In Glafira Petrovna's toilet-table Lavretzky found a small packet, tied with black ribbon, and sealed with black wax, thrust into the remotest recesses of the drawer. In the packet, face to face, lay a pastel portrait of his father in his youth, with soft curls tumbling over his brow, with long, languid eyes, and mouth half opened,--and the almost effaced portrait of a pale woman in a white gown, with a white rose in her hand,--his mother. Glafira Petrovna had never permitted her own portrait to be made.--"Dear little father Feodor Ivanitch,"--Anton was wont to say to Lavretzky:--"although I did not then have my residence in the manor-house of the masters, yet I remember your great-grandfather, Andrei Afanasievitch,--that I do; I was eighteen years of age when he died. Once I met him in the garden,--my very hamstrings shook; but he did nothing, only inquired my name,--and sent me to his chamber for a pocket-handkerchief. He was a real gentleman, there's no gainsaying that,--and he recognised no superior over him. For I must inform you, that your great-grandfather had a wonderful amulet,--a monk from Mount Athos gave him that amulet. And that monk said to him: 'I give thee this for thine affability, Boyarin; wear it--and fear not fate.' Well, and of course, dear little father, you know, what sort of times those were; what the master took a notion to do, that he did. Once in a while, some one, even one of the gentry, would take it into his head to thwart him; but no sooner did he look at him, than he would say: 'You're sailing in shoal water'--that was his favourite expression. And he lived, your great-grandfather of blessed memory, in a tiny wooden mansion; but what property he left behind him, what silver, and all sorts of supplies,--all the cellars were filled to the brim! He was a master. That little carafe, which you were pleased to praise,--belonged to him: he drank vodka from it. And then your grandfather, Piotr Ivanitch, built himself a stone mansion; but he acquired no property; with him everything went at sixes