“Hum! September was it? Dear me! Well, then, let’s see—September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April—to the 8th of May—that was Liza’s birthday—eight months all but a bit; and if you could only have seen the dear departed, how rejoiced——” “Show her to me—call her in!” the words seemed to tear themselves from Velchaninoff, whether he liked it or no. “Certainly—this moment!” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, forgetting that he had not finished his previous sentence, or ignoring the fact; and he hastily left the room, and entered the small chamber adjoining. Three or four minutes passed by, while Velchaninoff heard the rapid interchange of whispers going on, and an occasional rather louder sound of Liza’s voice, apparently entreating her father to leave her alone—so Velchaninoff concluded. At last the two came out. “There you are—she’s dreadfully shy and proud,” said Pavel Pavlovitch; “just like her mother.” Liza entered the room without tears, but with eyes downcast, her father leading her by the hand. She was a tall, slight, and very pretty little girl. She raised her large blue eyes to the visitor’s face with curiosity; but only glanced surlily at him, and dropped them again. There was that in her expression that one always sees in children when they look on some new guest for the first time—retiring to a corner, and looking out at him thence seriously and mistrustingly; only that there was a something in her manner beyond the usual childish mistrust—so, at least thought Velchaninoff. Her father brought her straight up to the visitor. “There—this gentleman knew mother very well. He was our friend; you mustn’t be shy,—give him your hand!” The child bowed slightly, and timidly stretched out her hand. “Natalia Vasilievna never would teach her to curtsey; she liked her to bow, English fashion, and give her hand,” explained Pavel Pavlovitch, gazing intently at Velchaninoff. Velchaninoff knew perfectly well that the other was keenly examining him at this moment, but he made no attempt to conceal his agitation: he sat motionless on his chair and held the child’s hand in his, gazing into her face the while. But Liza was apparently much preoccupied, and did not take her eyes off her father’s face; she listened timidly to every word he said. Velchaninoff recognised her large blue eyes at once; but what specially struck him was the refined pallor of her face, and the colour of her hair; these traits were altogether too significant, in his eyes! Her features, on the other hand, and the set of her lips, reminded him keenly of Natalia Vasilievna. Meanwhile Pavel Pavlovitch was in the middle of some apparently most interesting tale—one of great sentiment seemingly,—but Velchaninoff did not hear a word of it until the last few words struck upon his ear: