"Not exactly that," said the physician; "but I was going to say that the greater difficulty of regulating the peasant's diet is attributable to his degree of culture; and, again, the acute character of a disease that is already developed may often be broken up by timely remedies."

"I claim this also for intellectual and social discipline," cried the school-teacher. "The moderating power of culture will turn aside the violence of the pa.s.sions, and ward off their tragical end. Obstinacy and unbending willfulness are not real strength."

"A quarrel about the people's beard," said a clergyman to a colleague, smiling, and handing him an open snuff-box. The school-master had heard a whisper, but had not understood what was said; so he continued, with a sharp sidelong glance at the disturbers:

"As sure as the means of healing from the apothecary help struggling nature in sickness, or put aside a hindrance to nature's work, just as certainly will the means of culture, which for centuries have been gathered together by science, mitigate and heal moral infirmity, and the outbreak of pa.s.sion that leads to crime--yes, even crimes that are already committed."

Turning to the clergyman, he continued: "Religion is also a health-giving means of culture, but it is not the only one."

"Thanks," replied the clergyman, waving his hand, between the thumb and fore-finger of which he held a pinch of snuff. "But, most honored doctor, your culture-cure is a brewage of cla.s.sic and scientific education, a teaspoonful every hour, to be well shaken before taken--probatum est."

Amidst general laughter his colleague added:

"Your plan of education would not even give the people new enjoyments.

What do you propose to give them? They have not the coa.r.s.eness that is necessary. Look there! Those boys who have been tiring themselves all the week at harvest work, on Sunday play ten-pins and throw the heavy b.a.l.l.s."

The game of ten-pins was here interrupted, for the railroad train rushed past; and the boys, who had evidently been waiting for some one, hastened to the station, which could be seen from the Casino arbor, and the company exclaimed:

"The Hollanders! There comes Anton Armbruster with the raft-drivers."

Powerful men descended from the cars; they carried cloaks rolled up tightly on the axes over their shoulders. They came into the inn garden, and soon sat drinking the foaming beer, surrounded by groups of friends and strangers. The voices of the raftsmen were loud, and their laughter sounded like logs rolled over one another. Anton sat with his father, who had awaited him here. He had regained his old, fresh appearance; but, from his manner, as well as from that of the miller, it was easy to see that something had happened that was not to the old man's liking. To be sure, he touched gla.s.ses with his son; but he put his down again without drinking.

The judge's wife walked up and down the garden with the hostess; but the latter soon went and said something to Anton. He rose and went toward the judge's wife, greeting her politely. She gave him her hand, and went with him toward the vacant promenade by the river side. There she first gave him the lieutenant's greeting, and then told him where she had been that day, and what she had experienced. She looked at him closely and added:

"Thoma is soon coming to see me. May I speak to her of you?"

"Oh, certainly."

"So you did not become engaged in Holland?"

"No, indeed! As long as Thoma does not marry, I too will remain single.

It was very pleasant in Holland. They are very pleasant, hearty people, and they have got over the stupidity of thinking that we Germans want to take Holland. They listened to me attentively when I told of the war, and the eldest daughter of our business friend said to me that she could listen three days while I told about it."

"Did you like her?"

"Oh yes. She is a beautiful girl, and good-nature shines from her face; but nevertheless she was not Thoma. As I said, I have not changed.

Look! There comes Peter of Reutershofen with the wagon. Peter, what's the matter?"

"My mother is sick, and I have come for the doctor. There isn't much the matter, but father is so anxious."

"Are all the rest well?"

"Of course they are."

The doctor drove away with Peter, and the judge's wife asked him to send Thoma to her as soon as she could leave her mother.

Anton, too, soon went home with his father.

The physician on the plateau, and the raft-drivers in the valley, were overtaken by a severe thunderstorm that burst forth with wind and hail.

CHAPTER LXII.

Two days and two nights it stormed in the valley and on the plateau, with only short intermissions. When the thunder-clouds are ensnared between close-set wooded mountains and sharply pointed rocks, they can find no outlet. They toss. .h.i.ther and thither; they break and then come together again; it thunders and lightens, rains and hails, till they have entirely disburdened themselves.

One could almost say that it was the same with the people here; when bad humor had fastened on these hard, sharp-pointed natures, the anger and quarreling had no end.

Landolin and Thoma sat by the mother's sick bed; sometimes together, sometimes alone. Their eyes flashed, but their thoughts were unspoken.

The mother was constantly faint, for the air did not cool off during the two days and nights. On the third day, however, when the sun shone again, and a balmy, fresh air quickened everything anew, she said:

"I feel better. Thoma, it would do you good to go out, and the judge's kind wife has certainly something good to say to you. Go and see her.

She sent you word by the doctor. Go, for my sake, and bring me back good news. You can go right away. You have nursed me as I hope some day your child may nurse you."

Peter had told them that Anton had returned from Holland, and that he had seen him talking earnestly with the judge's wife. And, although her mother did not say so, she secretly hoped to live to see their reconciliation.

Thoma prepared herself for the walk into the city. But she did not wish a stranger to mix in their affairs. She did not need outside help, and it would do no good.

When she went to her mother, in her Sunday dress, the mother said, taking her hand:

"Child, you look quite different, now you have fixed yourself up a little. Let me give you this advice. You are so gentle and so kind to me; be the same to others. Don't put on such a dark face. There, that's right. When you laugh you are quite another person. Say good-bye to your father; he is at the stable. The bay mare has a colt. That is a good sign. Go in G.o.d's name, and you will come home happy again. G.o.d keep you!"

As Thoma went past she called a hurried good-bye into the stable, and did not wait for an answer. On the road it seemed to her as if she must turn back: she ought not to leave her mother to the care of strangers; but she went forward, thinking over what she should say to the judge's wife.

Thoma often threw up her hands in distress, and looked sadly at the destruction which the hail had wrought in the fields; but she soon comforted herself. She knew that her father had them insured against hail. Now they should have something in return for the tax they had paid so many years. When she reached the beautiful pear-tree which before had looked like a nosegay, she stood still. The storm had shaken off almost all the pears, and they lay scattered on the ground. Thoma called a girl who was working in the potato field to come and pick them up. Then she went on her way.

Everything reminded her of her first and only walk with Anton, after their betrothal. Since then she had not been on this road. She avoided the spot where Vetturi had spoken to her; but where she had rested, and Anton had stroked her face with the lily of the valley, she paused awhile. There was no sound in the forest; not a bird sang, a sultry stillness brooded over moss and gra.s.s on which the sunbeams quivered, the path was strewn with dead and green branches, and the trees which had been tapped for resin were broken down. The way was not clear and open again till she reached the path through the meadow where the gra.s.s was still trodden down from the celebration. The water in the river was yellow, and ran in high, roaring waves almost to the upper arch of the bridge.

The hostess of the Sword Inn nodded to Thoma from the window. Thoma responded and hurried past.

CHAPTER LXIII.

The judge's wife was not at home, but the maid--saying that she would be back soon: she had only gone to the station; her brother was expected, and might perhaps come by the first train--opened the corner room, where Thoma was to wait.

An air full of rest and comfort, full of refreshing odors from blooming plants on tables and pedestals, surrounded Thoma; and her eyes wandered over the beautiful pictures and statues on which the sun shone so brightly. Everything was as still as the flowers and the pictures; even the clock over the writing-table, among the family pictures, moved its pendulum without making the least noise.

Thoma sat down in the corner. The river and the mountains of her home appeared strange to her; everything looked so different through these great panes of gla.s.s.

The judge's wife soon entered, with a fresh bouquet of field flowers in her hand. She welcomed Thoma heartily, and the tones of her voice were both gentle and firm.

"How beautiful it is at your house! How very beautiful!" Thoma said, her voice trembling.

"I am glad that it pleases you."