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 grass 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 grass 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 glass. 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." "Oh! and to think," Thoma went on, "that this lady who has such a beautiful home goes to the huts of the poor--goes to Cushion-Kate!" "Sit down and make yourself comfortable with me. How is your mother?" "Better, but not quite well yet." "Do you bring me good news from your father?" "My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went with you to see Cushion-Kate. His going there shows that you can do more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?" "Certainly." "Did my father ask Cushion-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?" "Confess? Your father is acquitted." "Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have said be as if unheard." "Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg you disburden your soul."