"I won't give people the satisfaction of thinking we need sympathy. Leave the candle burning; and then, if I wake up again, I shall know I am no longer in prison. Good-night, we'll go to sleep now." He slept until late in the day. His wife rose gently and went about her work, carefully avoiding the least noise that might wake her husband. She blessed every moment that brought him sleep and exhilarating strength and health. CHAPTER XLII. Thoma was still in the harvest field when Landolin came into the living-room. His wife sat down beside him, and he said: "You can't think how different food tastes when one has to eat it alone, in prison." "Don't let your thoughts run back to that all the time." "Has any one been here to see me?" "No. But remember what you said last night." Yes, that was easily said; but Landolin could not help thinking of the people outside, and how it could be possible that they were not at least curious to look at him again. He looked out of the window. Heavily laden grain-wagons passed by, but no farmer, no servant, so much as gave a glance toward his house. The new bailiff came up the road, steadying the wagon with his pitchfork. He had evidently seen Landolin from a distance; for, not far from the house, he walked to the other side of the wagon, where he could not be seen. Landolin drew back into the room, and seating himself in the great arm-chair he drummed awhile on its arms, then went into the bedroom and pulled on his high boots. "You're not going out?" said his wife. He looked at her in astonishment. This questioning, this observation of all he did or left undone, was distasteful to him. He was about to say so to his wife, but checked himself, and explained that in prison he had worn slippers, and he felt like putting on his boots again, and going out. The cracking of a whip was heard in the yard. It was Peter on the saddle horse, driving the four-horse grain-wagon. Landolin went out, and met Thoma with sunburnt face following the wagon. For a while she looked at her father in silence, as though she could find nothing to say. Her look was severe and gloomy. "Good morning, Thoma." "Good morning, father," she replied. A milder frame of mind seemed to gain predominance as she looked on her father's care-worn face, but she threw back her head as if to shake off the gentle feeling. Now that father and daughter met in the clear light of day, they seemed unfamiliar--yes, almost strange in appearance to each other. To Thoma her father appeared smaller in size than she remembered him; and the self-confident, defiant expression of his face had become uncertain and timorous. On the other hand Thoma had grown stronger, prouder, more erect in her carriage; her eyebrows seemed to have sunk lower; and between them deep, narrow wrinkles had been traced. These are furrows from which a bitter harvest springs.