all, done some things
better than he, and that he ought to confess his mistake.

"Confession is not to be spoken of between us," replied Peter,
defiantly.

Landolin felt a pain in his breast, as though he had been stabbed with
a dagger. He groaned, and said:

"Only think how the people will ridicule us!"

"It would be well if that were all the ground they had. They do it at
many other things. That's enough! I won't be found fault with."

"I didn't find fault with you."

"Very well. You can deny that too if you like. There are no witnesses."

"Peter, don't provoke me. I was only speaking to you in kindness."

"I didn't see any."

"Peter, don't force me to lay hands on you."

"Do it. Kill me, as you did Vetturi, and then deny it."

A cry sounded from the porch; but another, much shriller, rang from the
living-room. Landolin rushed in. On the threshold of the chamber door
lay his wife, a corpse.

She had evidently heard the quarrel; had wanted to make peace; and had
dropped dead.

Peter too had come into the living-room; but Landolin motioned him
away, and he obeyed.

They laid his wife on the bed again. Landolin sat beside her a long
time; then he went out and said they must send a messenger for Thoma.

It was not long before Thoma came into the room. She sank down beside
the body, and cried:

"O mother, mother! Now, I am all alone in the world--all alone!"

When she looked around for her father, he was no longer there.

CHAPTER LXV.

Thoma had often looked into the cold, stony face of death; she did not
force herself where misery and sickness were, but she never refused a
call. But how different it was now, when she knelt beside her mother's
dead body! It seemed incomprehensible that the good, faithful mother,
who was always so ready for every call, could not answer any moan of
sorrow or cry for help. That is the bitterness of death. Thoma had
really only learned to know her mother since trouble had broken in upon
the house. In the days before that, she, like her father, had paid
little attention to her quiet, modest, busy mother, although she had
never refused her childlike respect.

"Mother! Dear, dear, good mother!" cried Thoma; but that is the
bitterness of death--it gives no answer.

Thoughts about everything ran through Thoma's soul in confusion; things
long past, and of to-day. The judge's wife lives down there in the
beautiful room with her picture