The coach rolled swiftly and smoothly along; Lisa was bending forward, she felt happy; the rising moon lighted up her face, the fragrant night on breeze breathed on her eyes and cheeks.

Her hand rested on the coach door near Lavretsky's hand.

And he was happy; borne along in the still warmth of the night, never taking his eyes off the good young face, listening to the young voice that was melodious even in a whisper, as it spoke of simple, good things, he did not even notice that he had gone more than half-way.

He did not want to wake Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Lisa's hand and said, "I think we are friends now, aren't we ?" She nodded, he stopped his horse, and the coach rolled away, lightly swaying and oscillating up and down; Lavretsky turned homeward at a walking pace.

The witchery of the summer night enfolded him; all around him seemed suddenly so strange--and at the same time so long known; so sweetly familiar.