The morning was far advanced when, in a confused, dejected frame of mind, he awoke. Making a hasty toilet, and almost forcing himself to think of the minutæ of the day, he went out, but took the opposite direction to the one which he had taken the previous afternoon. To make an end of things he pitched upon some lodgings kept by a poor German named Schpis, who had a daughter, Tinchen; after which, the deposit paid, Schpis removed the “To Let” notice which he had nailed to the door of the room, and complimented Ordynov upon his passion for learning, while also promising to do his best to make him comfortable. Ordynov replied that he would take possession of the room that evening, and then set out again for his old abode. On the way a sudden thought struck him, and he turned in another direction. A spirit of daring had come upon him, and he smiled to himself at the temerity of his impulse. His impatience made the way seem long, but at length he reached the church of the previous evening, and found a service being held there. Choosing a seat whence he could see all the worshippers present, he soon perceived that the one in particular whom he was seeking was absent; and, though he waited for a considerable time, he was at length forced shame-facedly to leave. To divert the current of his thoughts he set himself to think of indifferent matters, and, considering the trifles of life, suddenly remembered that the luncheon hour had arrived. Sufficiently hungry, he entered the same restaurant as he had dined at the previous evening; after which he resumed his long, unconscious wanderings through streets and alley-ways full of people, and through empty squares, until he had reached a broad space which was completely bare of houses, and covered over with withered turf. The utter silence of the place recalled him to himself, and aroused in him feelings which were new or had long lain dormant. The day was dry and frosty, as is often the case in St. Petersburg during the month of October, and at a little distance he perceived a hut, with, beside it, some ricks of hay and a pony which, with head down and muzzle pendent, was standing, unharnessed, near a cart, and seemed to be deep in meditation. Beside a broken wheel a watchdog was growlingly gnawing a bone, and a three-year-old child—clad only in a shirt, and scratching, at intervals, a flaxen, dishevelled head—had come out to stare at the stranger who had wandered so far afield. Behind the hut there stretched a number of meadows and market-gardens, while, prominent against the blue sky, dark lines of trees enclosed the horizon. In the opposite direction a bank of snow clouds was driving before the breeze, and the cloudbank, in its turn, seemed to be driving before it a flock of migratory birds which, in single file and with raucous cries, were passing swiftly across the zenith. Everything was still, everything seemed charged with a sort of solemn sadness, everything seemed to be feeling dull and uneasy. Ordynov walked on a little way, but soon began to find the solitude oppressive, and turned backwards towards the city. There he suddenly heard a bell beginning to summon worshippers to evening prayer; wherefore, redoubling his pace, he had soon reached the church which, during the last twenty-four hours, had become so familiar to his thoughts.