f the heart.

Suddenly he paused, for he became aware that he was begging for
sympathy. And from whom? But the game-keeper responded,

"I know myself how a man feels the half hour that the jury are out, and
he is waiting for the verdict of life or death."

"How do you know about it?"

"Have you forgotten my shooting the poacher? He had his piece leveled
at me from behind a tree. Crack--crack. It is self-defense! There you
lie," said the game-keeper, with a crafty smile.

Landolin went home fortified. "It was self-defense. The court has
acknowledged that it was, and it was so. I must learn to keep that in
mind. I must."

CHAPTER XLV.

The summer night was mild and clear. A Saturday evening in harvest-time
has a peculiar quiet, a premonition of the full day of rest after the
six days' unceasing work.

At all the farm-houses, far and wide, the people sat on the out-door
benches and talked of the harvest; of how much was already stored
away, and of how much was still standing in the fields. Then they
talked of their neighbors far and near, and of course of Landolin
also. They spoke pityingly of his misfortune, but with a certain quiet
self-congratulation that they themselves were free and happy. It was
almost like breathing, upon the mountain, air purified and freshened by
a thunder-storm in the valley.

Soon with weary steps they sought their beds; for in the morning young
and old were going to the celebration in the city.

Landolin and his wife were sitting on the bench before his house. Thoma
sat at one side on an old tree-stump, where the men often mended their
scythes.

These three had so much to say, and yet spoke so little!

"So to-morrow is the fifteenth of July," said Landolin. Thoma looked
around, but turned quickly away, and again seemed buried in her own
thoughts.

The dedication of the flag was to take place the following day. One
might imagine that years had already passed since the day when Anton,
with his two companions, came to ask Thoma to be maid of honor. Thoma
was unselfish enough not to think first of the pleasure and distinction
she would lose, but she sighed sadly when she thought how dreary and
sorrowful the day would be for Anton.

"What do you think, Thoma," asked Landolin; "shall I go to the
celebration, or not?"

"I have no opinion as to what you should do, or not do."

"Will you go with me?" said he, turning to his wife.

"I would lik