"No! I will stay here. I am best off here. I wish I were a horse; such a creature has the best time, after all."

"Oh come, dear brother!"

"I am not your dear brother; let me alone."

Father and daughter went into the living-room, and there the father related what his sainted wife--he sobbed aloud when he spoke this word--had said while Thoma was gone; and Thoma told about the judge's wife, and about Anton.

All night long father and daughter sat by the body. At daybreak Landolin said, "Your mother can never see the day again."

The father now tried to rest; and Thoma too went to her room, but she could not sleep.

CHAPTER LXVI.

The rain had pa.s.sed over and had come back again, and now seemed to make itself quite at home in the valley and on the height.

When Landolin followed his wife's coffin down the outer stairs, he caught, step by step, with his left hand at the wall of the house, as though he needed support. The school children, who were in the yard singing the funeral hymn, looked up at the changed man.

At the burial, at which one could hardly hear the words of the pastor, for the pattering of the rain on the open umbrellas, there was only a small attendance, although she was honored and loved by the whole neighborhood. For at the same hour that the bells were tolling here, they were also tolling on the mountain in Hoechenbrand, the highest village in the province, for the funeral of Walderjorgli.

For this reason Anton was not present. He had to lead the soldier's a.s.sociation, which had decided to go in a body and pay the last honors to the last Master of Justice.

Among the men with long black mantles, who carried Landolin's wife's coffin, relieving one another from time to time, was one who from the house to the open grave did not move from his post. It was Tobias. In the short time since he had been dismissed from the farm he had grown old fast; and the former crafty expression of his face had disappeared.

As the funeral procession left the church-yard, Cushion-Kate was seen kneeling on her son's grave. She had no umbrella, which even the poorest always has. She was kneeling on the ground, letting the rain pour down upon her red kerchief and her dress, and did not look up.

"I would like to go to her," said Thoma; "I should think she would accept a kind word from us now in our sorrow; but I am afraid she will rave and abuse us here by mother's new-made grave."

As Landolin and Thoma went past, Cushion-Kate's glance followed them, and she clenched her fist. Had she expected the mourners to go to her?

A man struggling with a river's death-bringing waves cries involuntarily for help, even though he is weary of life. Thus, tossed on the waves of sorrow and pain, of hate and revenge, the sad, gloomy soul hearkens for rescue--for a storm dispelling word.

"Why does no one help me?" Landolin had so often thought. Perhaps the poor bereaved woman there now asks, "Why does no one help me?"

Through his deep, dark grief for his wife's death, his child's love shone like a star that he had won back. He looked at Thoma, who walked beside him, and over his sorrow-worn face there flashed, as it were, a swift gleam of joy. He heard indeed what Thoma had said; but he could not think of strangers now.

At home, in the yard, in the living-room, in the chamber, it seemed as though all the lifeless things had been robbed of a nameless something, and as though they all were waiting for the dead to come back and greet them with her cheering smile!

Saying nothing, his eyes fastened upon the floor, Landolin was sitting in his chair, when the pastor soon after presented himself again at the house of mourning. He spoke words of comfort, but when he had gone Landolin said, "He goes away again. He lives for himself; no one lives for me any longer."

The regular stroke of the threshers awoke him from his reverie. These sounds were not new to him, but they startled him from his chair.

To-day, the day of his wife's funeral, they still keep on threshing?

But, to be sure, in this streaming rain, there is nothing else for the servants and day-laborers to do.

His wife's brother came; it was the first time he had shown himself since Thoma's betrothal. He did not say much; and not until Thoma came in, who in composed self-forgetfulness was attending to everything, were friendly words spoken. It was arranged that the so-called "Black Ma.s.s" should be said for the departed one in the village where she was born.

The uncle asked for Peter. He was called, and they sat down at the table. They ate, and when the uncle went away, Peter, who had scarcely spoken a word, accompanied him.

"Come up again, Peter," his father called after him; but he neither answered nor came back.

Peter's taciturnity from this day on became more marked.

When the candles were lit, Landolin said:

"This is her first night in the grave; I wish I lay beside her in the ground."

Thoma tried to comfort her father, but he said, looking at the light:

"You will see, Anton will come to-day when he gets back from Hoechenbrand. And if he does not come, do you know what I shall do?

I'll go to him to-morrow. I haven't a day to lose. 'Twould be better if I were to go to-day; now."

"Father, it's raining as hard as it can pour. You must not go to-day; you are no longer young, and must not hurt yourself."

"Very well; I'll do as you say. Say good-night to Peter for me."

The whole house was silent. Landolin and Thoma slept, overcome by the fatigue of grief. But Peter tossed in his bed for a long time, and did not find rest until he had resolved that he would again give all honor and control of affairs to his father. He would do it, but would not say so; for he had become again, and more than ever, "the silent Peter."

CHAPTER LXVII.

The day awoke, but it did not seem like day; the rain had ceased, but thick clouds enwrapped mountain and valley in deep shade.

When Landolin was again alone with Thoma, he said:

"I'll not stay on the farm; I'll live with you at the mill. You will take good care of me, and the Dutchman is just the right comrade for me now. I'll not be useless or burdensome to you. Peter can take the farm and pay you your portion. I think he has an eye on one of t.i.tus'

daughters. I don't care. I've nothing against it. But I want to stay with you the few years I have left; and when I die, bury me beside your mother."

Thoma nodded silently; then she said: "I would like to let the judge's wife know how matters are between us now. She has been very good to us."

"That is very true; and we'll invite her to the wedding; and she must lead the bride in the mother's place. Your mother in heaven will rejoice in your happiness; she said so before, but she thought you would bring Anton home with you then."

The bells rang, and Thoma said it was time to go to church, where ma.s.s was to be said for her mother's soul. Landolin and his two children went to church. Peter's silence couldn't strike any one, for no one spoke a word.

When they came out of church, the clouds had disappeared, with the exception of some small flaky ones that crept over the mountains.

"Thank G.o.d, the sun has come again," each one thought; and their sorrowful faces brightened.

In the yard Peter separated from his father and sister, and gave orders, in brief words, for every one to go into the field, to bind and stack the oats that were cut, and put them up to dry; then he went into the stable. Landolin soon came out and ordered a horse to be saddled; for he wanted to ride to the saw-mill to see Anton and his father.

"Yes, father; but you can't take the bay mare: its colt is only a few days old."

"Then let me have the black horse."

"Yes, father; but I really need him in the field, and----"