and would
accept no pity. She repulsed the disgraced girl coldly and sharply.

CHAPTER XXI.

The prison at the county-town stands high up on the mountain; the sound
of the bells in the village on the plateau reaches it from far away.
Landolin knew they were tolling for a funeral. He thought of home,
where they were burying Vetturi. He tried to imagine all that was
passing, but he could not.

Round Cushion-Kate's little house stood a crowd of people, mostly
women, for their husbands did not think it worth while to lose a day's
work for an insignificant person like Vetturi.

The district physician left the house, followed by the bailiff and the
clerk of the borough, who put on his hat as he came out of doors. Then
came the pastor. The sobs and weeping became louder and louder, and
almost drowned the tolling of the bells.

The procession was formed. Cushion-Kate followed the bier with her red
kerchief tied under her chin, and pulled far down over her forehead, so
that her face could scarcely be seen; and reaching from her shoulders
to her feet hung the large black woolen cloak which the borough
furnished to mourners. Her eyes were fastened on the ground as she
walked.

As the procession passed Landolin's house, she shook her bony fist
toward it, from under the black cloak.

The house was closed. No window was thrown open.

Anton, who walked in the procession next to the village clerk, could
not see that Thoma joined the last persons of the little train, and
knelt in the churchyard, hidden by a hedge.

The pastor spoke a few touching words of comfort. He exhorted the poor
bereaved mother to bear no malice in her soul--to leave punishment to
God. He repeated that he who thinks of revenge and retaliation does
more harm to his own soul than to him whom he seeks to punish.

Cushion-Kate's moans changed to rebellious mutterings. But almost as
many eyes rested upon Anton as upon Cushion-Kate herself; and overcome
by his emotion, he suddenly burst into loud weeping.

The procession broke up, and the people scattered in different
directions. Anton started away. He walked slowly, as though undecided
what to do; and then turning as with a sudden presentiment, he saw
Thoma, who was rising from her knees. She stood still. She seemed to be
embarrassed at his seeing her. He turned back, and holding out his
hand, said,--

"One must not say good day, in the churchyard; or perhaps you do