ne 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."

"Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady,
I--I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand
hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on
the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and
caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What
have I said?"

"Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?"

"Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled
before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill
him, I did it in anger,'--that is honest and brings one to honor again.
How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and
that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for
money--for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from
the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year
on Wh