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 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.