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
Mass" 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