has never seen these lines before; she did not know that they were written, but her heart is oppressed. She does not wish to read the new lines. "Read," repeats the visitor.

Viéra Pavlovna reads: "No; it is tiresome for me to be alone. Once I did not feel the loneliness. Why is it tiresome for me now when it did not used to be?"

"Turn back a page," says the visitor. Viéra Pavlovna turns a page:—

"The summer of this year!"

"Who writes diaries like that?" thinks Viéra Pavlovna; "it should have been written, '1885, June or July,' and have the day of the month; but here it stands': 'The summer, of this year'; who keeps diaries in that way?"

"The summer of this year; we go picnicking in our usual way into the suburbs, to the islands, and this time mílenki goes along with us. How enjoyable it is to me!—Akh! so it is August, is it? What day of the month? the fifteenth; or, no, the twelfth? Yes, yes, it was about the fifteenth; it was after that excursion that my poor mílenki became sick," thinks Viéra Pavlovna.

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

"No, you don't read everything. What is this?" says the visitor, and again through the unparted bed-curtain comes the wonderful hand; and again it touches the pages, and again on the pages appear new words, and again Viéra Pavlovna reads against her will the new words, "Why doesn't my mílenki come along with us oftener?"

"Turn one leaf more," says the visitor.

"My mílenki has so much to do, and it is all for my sake; for my sake he is working, my mílenki;—and that is the answer," thinks Viéra Pavlovna, happy at the thought.

"Turn one page more."

"What honest, noble people these students are, and how they respect my mílenki. And I enjoy myself with them just as though they were brothers, and we have no ceremoniousness."

"Is that all?"

"That is all!"

"No, read further."

And again appears the hand and touches the page, and again come forth new lines, and again Viéra reads the new lines:—