Thoma wanted to go into the house too, but her mother refused, and insisted that she should remain with her father.
Her mother went in, and Thoma felt that she now ought to talk with her father; but she couldn't think of a word to say. Every pleasant word appeared to her to be a lie, and the bitterness of her fate lay in the fact that there was a lie to contend with. It distressed her to pass her father by, at home and in the field, in silence, or with only a cold greeting, and now to sit so speechless, and force him to think of their trouble; but she could not do otherwise.
Landolin said that her mother was more ill than she was willing to admit, and that it was evidently hard for her to keep up. Thoma tried to quiet his fears; but her words sounded as hard as stone, when he said, "But that is a matter where the doctor can help us."
"And I know something that no doctor can prescribe, which would make your mother strong and well again."
Landolin had to wait long before Thoma asked what it could be, and he explained that the joy which her wedding with Anton would give her mother was the remedy. Thoma said, in a hollow voice,
"That can never be, no more than"--she stopped suddenly.
"Well! No more than what?"
Thoma gave no answer, and Landolin knew that she would have said--"No more than Vetturi can live again."
A well-known voice suddenly broke in upon the silence which followed.
"Good evening to you both!"