Everything was silent round about; not a sound was borne to him from the direction of the house. He cautiously advanced. Lo, at the turn in the avenue, the whole house suddenly gazed at him with its dark front; only in two of the upper windows were lights twinkling: in Liza's room, a candle was burning behind a white shade, and in Marfa Timofeevna's bedroom a shrine-lamp was glowing with a red gleam in front of the holy pictures, reflecting itself in an even halo in the golden settings; down-stairs, the door leading out on the balcony yawned broadly, as it stood wide open. Lavretzky seated himself on a wooden bench, propped his head on his hand, and began to gaze at the door and the window. Midnight struck in the town; in the house, the small clocks shrilly rang out twelve; the watchman beat with a riffle of taps on the board. Lavretzky thought of nothing, expected nothing; it was pleasant to him to feel himself near Liza, to sit in her garden on the bench, where she also had sat more than once.... The light disappeared in Liza's room. "Good night, my dear girl," whispered Lavretzky, as he continued to sit motionless, and without taking his eyes from the darkened window. Suddenly a light appeared in one of the windows of the lower storey, passed to a second, a third.... Some one was walking through the rooms with a candle. "Can it be Liza? Impossible!"... Lavretzky half rose to his feet. A familiar figure flitted past, and Liza made her appearance in the drawing-room. In a white gown, with her hair hanging loosely on her shoulders, she softly approached a table, bent over it, set down the candle, and searched for something; then, turning her face toward the garden, she approached the open door, and, all white, light, graceful, paused on the threshold. A quiver ran through Lavretzky's limbs. "Liza!"--burst from his lips, in barely audible tones. She started, and began to stare into the darkness. "Liza!"--repeated Lavretzky more loudly, and emerged from the shadow of the avenue. Liza, in alarm, stretched forth her head, and staggered backward. He called her for the third time, and held out his arms toward her. She left the door, and advanced into the garden. "Is it you?"--she said.--"Are you here?" "It is I ... I ... listen to me,"--whispered Lavretzky, and, grasping her hand, he led her to the bench. She followed him without resistance; her pale face, her impassive eyes, all her movements, were expressive of unutterable amazement. Lavretzky seated her on the bench, and himself took up his stand in front of her. "I had no thought of coming hither,"--he began:--"I came hither by chance.... I ... I ... I love you,"--he said, with involuntary terror. Liza slowly glanced at him; apparently, she had only that moment comprehended where she was, and that she was with him. She tried to rise, but could not, and covered her face with her hands. "Liza,"--said Lavretzky:--"Liza,"--he repeated, and bowed down at her feet....