by side. The pastor could not speak of
Anton, for this was no time for congratulations.

The moon had disappeared, and dark clouds covered the sky.

"It will rain to-morrow, thank God. It is much needed," was all that
the pastor said during the walk. At the meadow-path which leads to
Cushion-Kate's house, he asked if he should go there with her, but she
declined and went alone. She had to pass the house of the "Galloping
Cooper," and there, in the shadow of a pile of barrel staves, she heard
old Jochen say to the people who sat with him on the bench before the
house,

"Oh yes! It's Landolin! They've got him now, and he won't get away.
He'll have to pay for it, but not as his father used to pay for his
tricks. Here, on my right thumb is still the scar where Landolin bit me
in a fight we had. His father paid smart money for it. Yes; in old
times the common people only had bones that the farmers' sons might
break them. When Landolin stepped into the dancing-room, the floor
trembled, and so did the heart of everybody there. Now, he's getting
paid back."

"Will his head be cut off?" asked a child's voice.

"He deserves it; but they don't behead people any more."

All this fell on Thoma like a thunderbolt. She stood as though on fire.
Her fresh life seemed all burned away and turned to ashes. She pressed
her cold hands to her burning face, and fled homeward, unseen.

When she had almost reached the house, she started back in terror, as
though a ghost had waylaid her; but it was only the dog who rubbed
himself affectionately against her. Thoma was angry with herself for
being so easily frightened. "That must not be, and certainly not now."
The dog leaped before her, barking. He had evidently been driven home.

When she came in, her mother resting her hand on her open prayer-book,
asked how Cushion-Kate was doing.

Thoma acknowledged that she had not been to see her, but did not tell
the reason.

Her mother begged Thoma to stay with her during the night. Thoma sat by
the bed until she had gone to sleep, and then went to her own room, for
she knew that she would disturb her mother's rest.

CHAPTER XX.

It was late at night, when Thoma threw open the window of the room in
which she should have been asleep. Her cheeks glowed; but her lover,
who on this mild spring night, should have been talking with and
caressing her, came not. From the forest came the song of a
nightingale,