of Bizmyonkov was heard a couple of yards off. Liza quickly wiped her
tears and looked with a faltering smile at me. The elder lady came out
of the copse leaning on the arm of her flaxen-headed escort; they, in
their turn, admired the view. The old lady addressed some question to
Liza, and I could not help shuddering, I remember, when her daughter's
broken voice, like cracked glass, sounded in reply. Meanwhile the sun
had set, and the afterglow began to fade. We turned back. Again I took
Liza's arm in mine. It was still light in the wood, and I could clearly
distinguish her features. She was confused, and did not raise her eyes.
The flush that overspread her face did not vanish; it was as though she
were still standing in the rays of the setting sun.... Her hand
scarcely touched my arm. For a long while I could not frame a sentence;
my heart was beating so violently. Through the trees there was a
glimpse of the carriage in the distance; the coachman was coming at a
walking pace to meet us over the soft sand of the road.

'Lizaveta Kirillovna,' I brought out at last, 'what did you cry for?'

'I don't know,' she answered, after a short silence. She looked at me
with her soft eyes still wet with tears--her look struck me as changed,
and she was silent again.

'You are very fond, I see, of nature,' I pursued. That was not at all
what I meant to say, and the last words my tongue scarcely faltered out
to the end. She shook her head. I could not utter another word.... I
was waiting for something ... not an avowal--how was that possible? I
waited for a confiding glance, a question.... But Liza looked at the
ground, and kept silent. I repeated once more in a whisper: 'Why was
it?' and received no reply. She had grown, I saw that, ill at ease,
almost ashamed.