He returned on tiptoe to his bedroom, threw himself on his bed, and began reflecting on all that he had read. His thoughts wandered to the last reign, to the sea of mysterious and common events, known to others as well as to him; at last he fell asleep. The sound of the bells ringing for morning service awoke him. The pale November sun was struggling through the curtains. Father Peter locked up the manuscript in the drawer of his table, went to church to celebrate morning service, and returned home, through the back door, into the kitchen. On seeing his god-daughter going up the attic stairs with a hot iron in her hands he beckoned her. “Tell me, Vâra,” he whispered; “he who wrote that diary--Konsov--must, it’s plain, have been her _fiancé_?” Vâra moistened her finger and then touched the hot iron; it fizzed. “He did woo her,” she answered, dangling her iron. “Well! and what then?” “Well! Irena Lvovna liked him. Her father would not hear of it.” “Then the match was broken off?” “Of course!” “And now?” “Well, what can I say? She is an orphan now, and of course would be delighted. She is her own mistress--but where is he?” “Oh! of course the ship was wrecked,” said Father Peter. “And in our wilderness, what could we learn about it? Uncle, you might go and make some inquiries of naval people, because, you see, not only the command was lost, but all the count’s riches.… Somewhere, you would be sure to learn something.” “Who sent your friend this diary?” “God alone knows. The post brought it; Irisha received it. On the roll was only ‘Rakitin,’ and the address; and in the note, written in French, it was merely said that the manuscript had been found by some fishermen in a bottle on the sea-shore. Irena is now the only survivor of Rakitin … and so of course she received it.” The priest, without saying anything either to his niece or her friend, began most energetically to make inquiries in all directions, but his efforts were fruitless.