his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no con-cern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything con-sciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.
Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the sub-ject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.
He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: ‘Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feel-ings, her aspirations at least….’
She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so un-expectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready

to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.
But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regen-eration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the sub-ject of a new story, but our present story is ended.