But that was a wonderful lay! As he sang it again and again, with so many smartly dressed people chiming in; so many pretty young ladies darting him glances of approval; so many young swains shouting bravo after every verse, he felt as dizzy as if he had been dancing. It was as if some one had taken him in their arms and lifted him into the air.

He did not lose his head, though, but knew all the while that his feet were still on the earth. Meantime, he had the pleasant sensation of being elevated far above every one. On the one hand, he was being borne up by the honour, on the other by the glory. They bore him away on strong wings and placed him upon an imperial throne, far, far away amongst the rosy evening clouds.

There was but one thing wanting. Think, if the great Empress, his little Glory Goldie, had only been there, too!

Instantly this thought flashed upon him, a red shimmer passed before his eyes. Gazing at it more intently, he saw that it emanated from a young girl in a red frock who had just come out from the house, and was then standing on the porch.

The young girl was tall and graceful and had a wealth of gold yellow hair. From where he stood he could not see her face, but he thought she could be none other than Glory Goldie. Then he knew why he had been so blissfully happy that evening; it was just a foretoken of the little girl's nearness. Breaking off in the middle of his song and pushing aside all who stood in his way, he ran toward the house.

When he reached the steps he was obliged to halt. His heart thumped so violently it seemed ready to burst. But gradually he recovered just enough strength to be able to proceed. Very slowly he mounted step by step till at last he was on the porch. Then, spreading out his arms, he whispered:

"Glory Goldie!"

Instantly the young girl turned round. It was not Glory Goldie! A strange woman stood there, staring at him in astonishment.

Not a word could he utter, but tears sprang to his eyes; he could not hold them back. Now he faced about and staggered down the steps. Turning his back upon all the merriment and splendour, he went on up the driveway.

The people kept calling for him. They wanted him to come back and sing to them again. But he heard them not. As fast as he could go he hurried toward the woods, where he could be alone with his grief.

KATRINA AND JAN

Jan of Ruffluck had never had so many things to think about and ponder over as now, that he had become an emperor.

In the first place he had to be very guarded, since greatness had been thrust upon him, so as not to let pride get the upper hand. He must bear in mind continually that we humans were all made from the same material and had sprung from the same First Parents; that we were all of us weak and sinful and at bottom one person was no better than another.

All his life long he had observed, to his dismay, how people tried to lord it over one another, and of course he had no desire to do likewise. He found, however, that it was not an easy matter for one who had become exalted to maintain a proper humility. His greatest concern was that he might perhaps say or do something that would cause his old friends, who were still obliged to pursue their humble callings, to feel themselves slighted and forgotten. Therefore he deemed it best when attending such functions as dinners and parties—which duty demanded of him—never to mention in the hearing of these people the great distinction that had come to him. He could not blame them for envying him. Indeed not! Just the same he felt it was wisest not to make them draw comparisons.

And of course he could not ask men like Boerje and the seine-maker to address him as Emperor. Such old friends could call him Jan, as they had always done; for they could never bring themselves to do otherwise.

But the one whom he had to consider before all others and be most guarded with was the old wife, who sat at home in the hut. It would have been a great consolation to him, and a joy as well, if greatness had come to her also. But it had not. She was the same as of yore. Anything else was hardly to be expected. Glory Goldie must have known it would be quite impossible to make an empress of Katrina. One could not imagine the old woman pinning a golden coronet on her hair when going to church; she would have stayed at home rather than show her face framed in anything but the usual black silk headshawl.

Katrina had declared out and out she did not want to hear about Glory Goldie being an empress. On the whole it was perhaps best to humour her in this.

But one can understand it must have been hard for him who spent his mornings at the pier, surrounded by admiring throngs of people, who at every turn addressed him as "Emperor," to drop his royal air the moment he set foot in his own house. It cannot be denied that he found it a bit irksome having to fetch wood and water for Katrina and then to be spoken to as if he had gone backward in life instead of forward.

If Katrina had only stopped at that he would not have minded it, but she even complained because he would not go out to work now, as in former days. When she came with such things he always turned a deaf ear. As if he did not know that the Empress of Portugallia would soon send him so much money that he need never again put on his working clothes! He felt it would be an insult to her to give in to Katrina on this point.

One afternoon, toward the end of August, as Jan was sitting upon the flat stone in front of the hut, smoking his pipe, he glimpsed some bright frocks in the woods close by, and heard the ring of youthful voices.

Katrina had just gone down to the birch grove to cut twigs for a broom: but before leaving she had said to Jan that hereafter they must arrange their matters so that she could go down to Falla and dig ditches; he might stay at home and do the cooking and mending, since he was too fine now to work for others. He had not said a word in retort, but all the same it was mighty unpleasant having to listen to such talk; therefore he was very glad that he could turn his thoughts to something else. Instantly he ran inside for his imperial cap and stick, and was out again and down at the gate just as the young girls came along.

There were no less than five of them in the party, the three young misses from Loevdala and two strangers, who were evidently guests at the Manor.

"Go'-day, my dear Court ladies," said Jan as he swung the gate wide open and went out toward them. "Go'-day, my dear Court ladies," he repeated, at the same time making such a big sweep with his cap that it almost touched the ground.

The girls stood stockstill. They looked a bit shy at first, but he soon helped them over their momentary embarrassment.

Then it was "good-day" and "our kind Emperor." It was plain they were really glad to see him again. These little misses were not like Katrina and the rest of the Ashdales folk. They were not at all averse to hearing about the Empress and immediately asked him if Her Highness was well and if she was not expected home soon.

They also asked if they might be allowed to step into the hut, to see how it looked inside. That he could well afford to let them do, for Katrina always kept the house so clean and tidy that they could receive callers there at any time.

When the young misses from the Manor came into the house they were no doubt surprised that the great Empress had grown up in a little place like that. It may have done very well in the old days, when she was used to it, they said, but how would it be now should she come back? Would she reside here, with her parents, or return to Portugallia?

Jan had thought the selfsame things himself, and he understood of course that Glory Goldie could not settle down in the Ashdales when she had a whole kingdom to rule over.

"The chances are that the Empress will return to Portugallia," he replied.

"Then you will accompany her, I suppose?" said one of the little misses.

Jan would rather the young lady had not questioned him regarding that matter. Nor did he give her any reply at first, but she was persistent.

"Possibly you don't know as yet how it will be?" she said.

Oh, yes, he knew all about it, only he was not quite sure how people would regard his decision. Perhaps they might think it was not the correct thing for an emperor to do. "I shall remain at home," he told her. "It would never do for me to leave Katrina."

"So Katrina is not going to Portugallia?"

"No," he answered. "You couldn't get Katrina away from the hut, and I shall stay right here with her. You see when one has promised to love and cherish till death—"

"Yes, I understand that one can't break that vow." This was said by the young girl who seemed most eager to know about everything. "Do you hear that, all of you?" she added. "Jan won't leave his wife though all the glories of Portugallia are tempting him."

And think of it! The girls were very glad of this. They patted him on the back and told him he did right. That was a favourable sign, they said, for it showed that all was not over yet with good old Jan Anderson of Ruffluck Croft.

He could not make out just what they meant by that; but probably they were happy to think the parish was not going to lose him.

They bade him good-bye now, saying they were going over to Doveness to a garden party.

They had barely gone when Katrina walked in. She must have been standing outside the door listening. But how long she had stood there or how much she had heard, Jan did not know. Anyway, she looked more amiable and serene than she had appeared in a long while.

"You're an old simpleton," she told him. "I wonder what other women would say if they had a husband like you? But still it's a comfort to know that you don't want to go away from me."

BJOERN HINDRICKSON'S FUNERAL

Jan Anderson of Ruffluck was not invited to the funeral of Bjoern Hindrickson of Loby.

But he understood, of course, that the family of the departed had not been quite certain that he would care to claim kinship with them now that he had risen to such glory and honour; possibly they feared it might upset their arrangements if so exalted a personage as Johannes of Portugallia were to attend the funeral.

The immediate relatives of the late Bjoern Hindrickson naturally wished to ride in the first carriage, where by rights place should have been made for him who was an emperor. They knew, to be sure, that he was not over particular about the things which seem to count for so much with most folks. It would never have occurred to him to stand in the way of those who like to sit in the place of honour at special functions. Therefore, rather than cause any ill feeling, he remained away from the house of mourning during the early forenoon, before the funeral procession had started, and went direct to the church. Not until the bells had begun tolling and the long procession had broken up on church ground did he take his place among his relatives.

When they saw Jan there they all looked a little astonished; but now he was so accustomed to seeing folks surprised at his condescension that he took it as a matter of course. No doubt they would have liked to place him at the head of the line, but then it was too late to do so, as they were already moving toward the churchyard.

After the burial service, when he accompanied the funeral party to the church and seated himself on the mourners' bench, they appeared to be slightly embarrassed. However, there was no time to comment upon his having placed himself among them instead of occupying his usual high seat, in the gentry's gallery—as the opening hymn had just begun.

At the close of the service, when the conveyances belonging to the funeral party drove up onto the knoll, Jan went out and climbed into the hearse, where he sat down upon the dais on which the coffin rested on the drive to the churchyard. As the big wagon would now be going back empty, he knew that here he would not be taking up some other person's place. The daughter and son-in-law of the late Bjoern Hindrickson walked back and forth at the side of the hearse and looked at him. They regretted no doubt that they could not ask him to ride in one of the first carriages. Nor did he wish to incommode any one. He was what he was in any case.

During the drive to Loby he could not help thinking of the time when he and Glory Goldie had called upon their rich relatives. This time, however, it was all so different! Who was great and respected now? and who was conferring an honour upon his kinsfolk by seeking them out?

As the carriages drew up in turn before the house of mourning, the occupants stepped out and were conducted into the large waiting-room on the ground floor where they removed their wraps. Two neighbours of the Hindricksons, who acted as host and hostess, then invited the more prominent persons among the guests to step upstairs, where dinner was served.

It was a difficult task having to single out those who were to sit at the first table. For at so large a funeral gathering it was impossible to make room for all the guests at one sitting. The table had to be cleared and set three or four times.

Some people would have regarded it as an inexcusable oversight had they not been asked to sit at the first table. As for him who had risen to the exalted station of Emperor, he could be exceedingly obliging in many ways, but to be allowed to sit at the first table was a right which he must not forgo; otherwise folks might think he did not know it was his prerogative to come before all others. It did not matter so much his not being among the very first to be requested to step upstairs. It was self-evident that he should dine with the pastor and the gentry; so he felt no uneasiness on that score.

He sat all by himself on a corner bench, quite silent. Here nobody came up to chat with him about the Empress, and he seemed a bit dejected. When he left home Katrina had begged him not to come to this funeral, because the folks at this farm were of too good stock to cringe to either kings or emperors. It looked now as if she were right about it. For old peasants who have lived on the same farm from time immemorial consider themselves the superiors of the titled aristocracy.

It was a slow proceeding bringing together those who were to be at the first table. The host and hostess moved about a long while seeking the highest worthies, but somehow they failed to come up to him.

Not far from the Emperor sat a couple of old spinsters, chatting, who had not the least expectation of being called up then. They were speaking of Linnart, son of the late Bjoern Hindrickson, saying it was well that he had come home in time for a reconciliation with his father.

Not that there had been any actual enmity between father and son, but it happened that some thirty years earlier, when the son was two and twenty and wanted to marry, he had asked the old man to let him take over the management of the farm, so that he could be his own master. This Bjoern had flatly refused to do. He wanted the son to stay at home and go on working under him and then to take over the property when the old man was no more. "No," was the son's answer. "I'll not stay at home and be your servant even though you are my father. I prefer to go out in the world and make a home for myself, for I must be as good a man as you are, or the feeling of comradeship between us will soon end." "That can end at any time, if you choose to go your own ways," Bjoern Hindrickson told him. Then the son had gone up into the wilderness northeast of Dove Lake, and had settled in the wildest and least populated region, where he broke ground for a farm of his own. His land lay in Bro parish, and he was never again seen in Svartsjoe. Not in thirty years had his parents laid eyes on him. But a week ago, when old Bjoern was nearing the end, he had come home.

This was good news to Jan of Ruffluck. The Sunday before, when Katrina got back from church and told him that Bjoern was dying, he immediately asked whether the son had been sent for. But it seems he had not. Katrina had heard that Bjoern's wife had begged and implored the old man to let her send for their son and that he would not hear of it. He wanted to die in peace, he said.

But Jan was not satisfied to let the matter rest there. The thought of Linnart away out in the wilds, knowing nothing of his father's grave condition had caused him to disregard old Bjoern's wishes and go tell the son himself. He had heard nothing as to the outcome until now, and he was so interested in what the two old spinsters were saying, that he quite forgot to think about either the first or the second table.

When the son returned he and the father were as nice as could be to each other. The old man laughed at the son's attire. "So you've come in your working clothes," he said. "I suppose I should have dressed up, since it's Sunday," Linnart replied. "But we've had so much rain up our way this summer and I had thought of hauling in some oats to-day." "Did you manage to get in any?" the old man asked him. "I got one wagon loaded, but that I left standing in the field when word came that you were sick. I hurried away at once, without stopping to change my clothes." "Who told you about it?" the father inquired. "Some man I've never seen before," replied the son. "It didn't occur to me to ask him who he was. He looked like a little old beggarman." "You must find that man and thank him from me," old Bjoern then said. "Him you must honour wherever you meet him. He has meant well by us." The father and son were so happy over their reconciliation that it was as if death had brought them joy instead of grief.

Jan winced when he heard that Linnart Hindrickson had called him a beggar. But he understood of course that it was simply because he had not worn his imperial cap or carried his stick when he went up to the forest. This brought him back to his present dilemma. Surely he had waited long enough! He should have been called by this time. This would never do!

He rose at once, resolutely crossed the room into the hallway, climbed the stairs, and opened the door to the big dining-hall. He saw at a glance that the dinner was already on; every place at the large horseshoe table was occupied and the first course had been served. Then it was not meant that he should be among the elect, for there sat the pastor, the sexton, the lieutenant from Loevdala and his lady—there sat every one who should be there, except himself.

One of the young girls who passed around the food rushed over to Jan the instant he appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing here, Jan?" she said in a low voice. "Go down with you!"

"But my good hostess!" Jan protested, "Emperor Johannes of Portugallia should be present at the first sitting."

"Oh, shut up, Jan!" said the girl. "This is not the proper time to come with your nonsense. Go down, and you'll get something to eat when your turn comes."

It so happened that Jan entertained a greater regard for this particular household than for any other in the parish; therefore it would have been very gratifying to him to be received here in a manner befitting his station. A strange feeling of despondency came over him as he stood down by the door, cap in hand; he felt that all his imperial grandeur was falling from him. Then, in the middle of this sore predicament, he heard Linnart Hindrickson exclaim:

"Why, there stands the fellow who came to me last Sunday and told me that father was sick!"

"What are you saying?" questioned the mother. "But are you certain as to that?"

"Of course I am. It can't be any one but he. I've seen him before to-day, but I didn't recognize him in that queer get-up. However I see now that he's the man."

"If he is our man, he mustn't be allowed to stand down by the door, like a beggar," said the old housewife. "In that case, we must make room for him at the table. Him we owe both honour and thanks, for it was he who sent comfort to Bjoern in his last hours, while to me he has brought the only consolation that can lighten my sorrow in the loss of a husband like mine."

And room was made, too, though the table seemed to be crowded enough already.

Jan was placed at the centre of the horseshoe, directly opposite the pastor. He could not have wished for anything better. At first he seemed a little dazed. He could not comprehend why they should make such fuss over him just because he had run a few miles into the woods with a message for Linnart Hindrickson, Suddenly he understood, and all became clear to him: it was the Emperor they wished to honour; they had gone about it in this way so that no one should feel slighted or put out. It couldn't be explained in any other way. For he had always been kind and good-natured and helpful, yet never before had he been honoured or feted in the least degree for that.

THE DYING HEART

Engineer Boraeus on his daily stroll to the pier could not fail to notice the crowds that always gathered nowadays around the little old man from Ruffluck Croft. Jan did not have to sit all by himself any more and while away the long, dreary hours in silent musings, as he had done during the summer. Instead, all who waited for the boat went up to him to hear him tell what would happen on the homecoming of the Empress, more especially when she stepped ashore here, at the Borg landing. Every time Engineer Boraeus went by he heard about the crown of gold the Empress would wear on her hair and the gold flowers that would spring into bloom on tree and bush the instant she set foot on land.

One day, late in October, about three months after Jan of Ruffluck had first proclaimed the tidings of Glory Goldie's rise to royal honours, the engineer saw an uncommonly large gathering of people around the little old man. He intended to pass by with a curt greeting, as usual, but changed his mind and stopped to see what was going on.

At first glance he found nothing out of the ordinary, Jan was seated upon one of the waiting stones, as usual, looking very solemn and important. Beside him sat a tall, thin woman, who was talking so fast and excitedly that the words fairly spurted out of her mouth; she shook her head and snapped her eyes, her body bending forward all the while so that by the time she had finished speaking her face was on a level with the ground.

Engineer Boraeus immediately recognized the woman as Mad Ingeborg. At first he could not make out what she was saying, so he turned to a man in the crowd and asked him what all this was about.

"She's begging him to arrange for her to accompany the Empress to Portgallia, when Her Royal Highness returns thither," the man explained. "She has been talking to him about this for a good while now, but he won't make her any promises."

Then the engineer had no difficulty in following the colloquy. But what he heard did not please him, and, as he listened, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened and reddened.

Here sat the only person in the world, save Jan himself, who believed in the wonders of Portugallia, yet she was denied the pleasure of a trip there. The poor old soul knew that in that kingdom there was no poverty and no hunger, neither were there any rude people who made fun of unfortunates, nor any children who pursued lone, helpless wanderers and cast stones at them. In that land reigned only peace, and all years were good years. So thither she longed to be taken—away from the anguish and misery of her wretched existence. She wept and pleaded, employing every argument she could think of, but "No," and again "No" was the only answer she got.

And he who turned a deaf ear to her prayers was one who had sorrowed and yearned for a whole year. A few months ago, when his heart was still athrob with life, perhaps he would not have said no to her pleadings; but now at a time when everything seemed to be prospering with him, his heart had become hardened. Even the outward appearance of the man showed that a great change had taken place within. He had acquired plump cheeks, a double chin, and a heavy black moustache. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and there was a cold fixed stare about them. His nose, too, looked more prominent than of yore and had taken on a more patrician mold. His hair seemed to be entirely gone; not one hair stuck out from under the leather cap.

The engineer had kept an eye on the man from the day of their first talk in the summer. It was no longer an intense yearning that made Jan haunt the pier. Now he hardly glanced toward the boat. He came only to meet people who humoured his mania, who called him "Emperor" just for the sport of hearing him sing and narrate his wild fancies.

But why be annoyed at that? thought the engineer. The man was a lunatic of course. But perhaps the madness need never have become so firmly fixed as it was then. If some one had ruthlessly yanked Jan of Ruffluck down off his imperial throne in the beginning possibly he could have been saved.

The engineer flashed the man a challenging glance. Jan looked condescendingly regretful, but remained adamant as before.

In that fine land of Portugallia there were only princes and generals, to be sure—only richly dressed people. Mad Ingeborg in her old cotton headshawl and her knit jacket would naturally be out of place there. But Heavenly Father! the engineer actually thought—

Engineer Boraeus looked just then as if he would have liked to give Jan a needed lesson, but he only shrugged his shoulders. He knew he was not the right person for that, and would simply make bad worse. Quietly withdrawing from the crowd, he walked down to the end of the pier just as the boat hove into view from behind the nearest point.

DEPOSED

Long before his marriage to Anna Ericsdotter of Falla, Lars Gunnarson happened one day to be present at an auction sale.

The parties who held the auction were poor folk who probably had no tempting wares to offer the bargain seekers, for the bidding had been slow, and the sales poor. They had a right to expect better results, with Joens of Kisterud as auctioneer. Joens was such a capital funmaker that people used to attend all auctions at which he officiated just for the pleasure of listening to him. Although he got off all his usual quips and jokes, he could not seem to infuse any life into the bidders on this occasion. At last, not knowing what else he could do, he put down his hammer saying he was too hoarse to do any more crying.

"The senator will have to get some one else to offer the wares," he told Carl Carlson of Stovik, who stood sponsor for the auction. "I've shouted myself hoarse at these stone images standing around me, and will have to go home and keep my mouth shut for a few weeks, till I can get back my voice."

It was a serious matter for the senator to be left without a crier, when most of the lots were still unsold; so he tried to persuade Joens to continue. But it was plain that Joens could not afford to hurt his professional standing by holding a poor auction, and therefore he became so hoarse all at once that he could not even speak in a whisper. He only wheezed.

"Perhaps there is some one here who will cry out the wares for a moment, while Joens is resting?" said the senator, looking out over the crowd without much hope of finding a helper.

Then Lars Gunnarson pushed his way forward and said he was willing to try. Carl Carslon only laughed at Lars, who at that time looked like a mere stripling, and told him he did not want a small boy who had not even been confirmed. Whereupon Lars promptly informed Carl Carlson that he had not only been confirmed but had also performed military service. He begged so eagerly to be allowed to wield the hammer that the senator finally gave way to him.

"We may as well let you try your hand at it for a while," he said. "I dare say it can't go any worse than it has gone so far."

Lars promptly stepped into Joens's place. He took up an old butter tub to offer it—hesitated and just stood there looking at it, turning the tub up and down, tapping on its bottom and sides. Apparently surprised not to find any flaws in it, he presently offered the lot in a reluctant tone of voice, as if distressed at having to sell so valuable an article. For his part, he would rather that no bids be made, he said. It would be lucky for the owner if no one discovered what a precious butter tub this was, for then he could keep it.

And now, when bid followed bid, everybody noticed how disappointed Lars looked. It was all very well so long as the bids were so low as to be beneath his notice; but when they began to mount higher and higher, his face became distorted from chagrin. He seemed to be making a great sacrifice when he finally decided to knock down the sour old butter tub.

After that he turned his attention to the water buckets, the cowls, and washtubs. Lars Gunnarson seemed somewhat less reluctant when it came to disposing of the older ones, which he sold without indulging in overmuch sighing; but the newer lots he did not want to offer at all. "They are far too good to give away," he remarked to the owner. "They've been used so little that you could easily sell them for new at the fair."

The auction hunters had no notion as to why they kept shouting more and more eagerly. Lars Gunnarson showed much distress for every fresh bid; it could never have been to please him they were bidding. Somehow they had come to regard the things he offered as of real worth. It suddenly occurred to them that one thing or another was needed at home and here were veritable bargains, which they were not buying now just for the fun of it, as had been the case when Joens of Kisterud did the auctioning.

After this master stroke Lars Gunnarson was in great demand at all auctions. There was never any merriment at the sales after he had begun to wield the hammer; but he had the faculty of making folks long to get possession of a lot of old junk and inducing a couple of bigwigs to bid against each other on things they had no earthly use for, simply to show that money was no object to them. And he managed to dispose of everything at all auctions at which he served.

Once only did it seem to go badly for Lars, and that was at Sven Oesterby's, at Bergvik. There was a fine big house, with all its furnishings up for sale. Many people had assembled, and though late in the autumn the weather was so mild that the auction could be held out of doors; yet the sales were almost negligible. Lars could not make the people take any interest in the wares, or get them to bid. It looked as though it would go no better for him than it had gone for Joens of Kisterud the day Lars had to take up the hammer to help him out.

Lars Gunnarson, however, had no desire to turn his work over to another. He tried instead to find out what it was that seemed to be distracting the attention of the people and keeping them from making purchases. Nor was he long getting at the cause of it.

Lars had mounted a table, that every one might see what he had to offer, and from this point of vantage he soon discovered that the newly created emperor, who lived in the little but close to Falla and had been a day labourer all his life, moved about in the crowd. Lars saw him bowing and smiling to right and left, and letting people examine his stars and his stick, and, at every turn, he had a long line of youngsters at his heels. Nor were older folks above bandying words with him. No wonder the auction went badly, with a grand monarch like him there to draw every one's attention to himself!

At first Lars went right on with his auctioneering, but he kept an eye on Jan of Ruffluck until the later had made his way to the front. There was no fear of Johannes of Portugallia remaining in the background! He shook hands with everybody and spoke a few pleasant words to each and all, at the same time pushing ahead until he had reached the very centre of the ring.

But the moment Jan was there Lars Gunnarsom jumped down from the table, rushed up to him, snatched his imperial cap and stick and was back in his place before Jan had time to think of offering resistance.

Then Jan cried out and tried to climb up onto the table to get back the stolen heirlooms, but immediately Lars raised the stick to him and forced him back. At that there was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd, which, however, had no effect upon Lars.

"I see that you are surprised at my action," he shouted in his loud auctioneering voice, which could be heard all over the yard. "But this cap and this stick belong to us Falla folk. They were bequeathed to my father-in-law, Eric Ersa, by the old master of Falla, he who ran the farm before Eric took it over. These things have always been treasured in the family, and I can't tolerate having a lunatic parade around in them."

Jan had suddenly recovered his composure and while Lars was speaking, he stood with his arms crossed on his chest a look in his face of sublime indifference to Lars's talk. As soon as Lars subsided, Jan, with a gesture of command, turned to the crowd, and said very quietly:

"Now, my good Courtiers, you must see that I get back my property."

Not a solitary person made a move to help him, but there were some who laughed. Now they had all gone over to Lars's side. There was just one individual who seemed to feel sorry for Jan. A woman cried out to the auctioneer:

"Ah, Lars, let him keep his royal trumpery! The cap and stick are of no use to you."

"I'll give him one of my own caps, when I get home," returned Lars. "But I'll be hanged if I let him go about any longer with these heirlooms, making of them a target for jests!"

This was followed by loud laughs from the crowd, Jan was so dumfounded that all he could do was to stand still and look at the people. He glanced from one to another, unable to get over his amazement. Dear, dear! Was there no one among all those who had honoured and applauded him who would help him now, in his hour of need? The people stood there, unmoved. He saw then that he meant nothing to them and that they would not lift a finger for him. He became so frightened that all his imperial greatness fell from him, and he was like a little child that is ready to cry because its playthings have been taken away.

Lars Gunnarson turned to the huge pile of wares stacked beside him, prepared to go on with the auction. Then Jan attempted to do something himself. Wailing and protesting, he went up to the table where Lars stood, quickly bent down and tried to overturn it. But Lars was too alert for him; with a swing of the imperial stick, he dealt Jan a blow across his back that sent him reeling.

"No you don't!" cried he. "I'll keep these articles for the present. You've wasted enough time already on this emperor nonsense. Now you'd better go straight home and take to your digging again."

Jan did not appear to be specially anxious to obey; whereupon Lars again raised the stick, and nothing more was needed to make Emperor Johannes of Portugallia turn and flee.

No one made a move to follow him or offered him a word of sympathy. No one called to him to come back. Indeed folks only laughed when they saw how pitilessly and unceremoniously he had been stripped of all his grandeur.

But this did not suit Lars, either. He wanted to have it as solemn at his auctions as at a church service.

"I think it's better to talk sense to Jan than to laugh at him," he said, reprovingly. "There are many who encourage him in his foolishness and who even call him Emperor. But that is hardly the right way to treat him. It would be far better to make him understand who and what he is, even though he doesn't like it. I have been his employer for some little time, therefore it is my bounden duty to see that he goes back to his work; otherwise he'll soon be a charge on the parish."

After that Lars held a good auction, with close and high bids. The satisfaction which he now felt was not lessened when on his homecoming the next day, he learned that Jan of Ruffluck had again put on his working clothes, and gone back to his digging.

"We must never remind him of his madness," Lars Gunnarson warned his people, "then perhaps his reason will be spared to him. Anyhow, he has never had more than he needs."

THE CATECHETICAL MEETING

Lars Gunnarson was decidedly pleased with himself for having taken the cap and stick away from Jan; it looked as if he had at the same time relieved the peasant of his mania.

A fortnight after the auction at Bergvik a catechetical meeting was held at Falla. People had gathered there from the whole district round about Dove Lake, the Ruffluck folk being among them. There was nothing in Jan's manner or bearing now that would lead one to think he was not in his right mind.

All the benches and chairs in the house had been moved into the large room on the ground floor and arranged in close rows, and there sat every one who was to be catechized, including Jan; for to-day he had not pushed his way up to a better seat than he was entitled to. Lars kept his eyes on Jan. He had to admit to himself that the man's insanity had apparently been checked. Jan behaved now like any rational being; he was very quiet and all who greeted him received only a stiff nod in response, which may have been due to a desire on his part not to disturb the spirit of the meeting.

The regular meeting was preceded by a roll call, and when the pastor called out "Jan Anderson of Ruffluck Croft," the latter answered "here" without the slightest hesitation—as if Emperor Johannes of Portugallia had never existed.

The clergyman sat at a table at the far end of the room, with the big church registry in front of him. Beside him sat Lars Gunnarson, enlightening him as to who had moved away from the district within the year, and who had married.

Jan having answered all questions correctly and promptly, the pastor turned to Lars and put a query to him in a low tone of voice.

"It was not as serious as it appeared," said Lars. "I took it out of him. He works at Falla every day now, as he has always done."

Lars had not thought to lower his voice, as had the pastor. Every one knew of whom he was speaking and many glanced anxiously at Jan, who sat there as calm as though he had not heard a word.

Later, when the catechizing was well on, the pastor happened to ask a trembling youth whose knowledge of the Scriptures was to be tested, to repeat the Fourth Commandment.

It was not wholly by chance the pastor had chosen this commandment as his text for that evening. When seated thus in a comfortable old farmhouse, with its olden-time furniture, and much else that plainly bespoke a state of prosperity, he always felt moved to impress upon his hearers how well those prosper who hold together from generation to generation, who let their elders govern as long as they are able to do so, and who honour and cherish them throughout the remaining years of their lives.

He had just begun to unfold the rich promises which God has made to those who honour father and mother, when Jan of Ruffluck arose.

"There is some one standing outside the door who is afraid to come in," said Jan.

"Go see what the matter is, Boerje," said the pastor. "You're nearest the door."

Boerje rose at once, opened the door, and glanced up and down the entry.

"There's nobody out there," he replied. "Jan must have heard wrongly."

After this interruption the pastor proceeded to explain to his listeners that this commandment was not so much of a command as it was good counsel, which should be strictly followed if one wished to succeed in life. He was himself only a youth, but this much he had already observed: lack of respect toward parents and disobedience were at the bottom of many of life's misfortunes.

While the pastor was speaking Jan time and again turned his head toward the door and he motioned to Katrina, who was sitting on the last bench and could more easily get to the door than he could, to go open it.

Katrina kept her seat as long as she dared; but being a bit fearful of crossing Jan these days, she finally obeyed him. When she had got the door open, she, like Boerje, saw no one in the entry. She shook her head at Jan and went back to her seat.

The pastor had not allowed himself to be disconcerted by Katrina's movements. To the great joy of all the young people, he had almost ceased putting questions and was voicing some of the beautiful thoughts that kept coming into his mind.

"Think how wisely and well things are ordered for the dear old people whom we have with us in our homes!" he said. "Is it not a blessing that we may be a stay and comfort to those who cared for us when we were helpless, to make life easy for those who perhaps have suffered hunger themselves that we might be fed? It is an honour for a young couple to have at the fireside an old father or mother, happy and content—"

When the pastor said that a smothered sob was heard from a corner of the room. Lars Gunnarson, who had been sitting with head devoutly bowed, arose at once. Crossing the floor on tiptoes, so as not to disturb the meeting, he went over to his mother-in-law, placed his arm around her, and led her up to the table. Seating her in his own chair, he stationed himself behind it and looked down at her with an air of solicitude; then he beckoned to his wife to come and stand beside him. Every one understood of course that Lars wanted them to think that in this home all was as the pastor had said it should be.

The minister looked pleased as he glanced up at the old mother and her children. The only thing that affected him a little unpleasantly was that the old woman wept all the while. He had never before succeeded in calling forth such deep emotion in any of his parishioners.

"It is not difficult to keep the Fourth Commandment when we are young and still under the rule of our parents," the pastor continued; "but the real test comes later, when we are grown and think ourselves quite as wise—"

Here the pastor was again interrupted. Jan had just risen and gone to the door himself. He seemed to have better luck than had Boerje or Katrina: for he was heard to say "Go'-day" to somebody out in the entry.

Now every one turned to see who it was that had been standing outside all the evening, afraid to come in. They could hear Jan urging and imploring. Evidently the person wished to be excused, for presently Jan pulled the door to and stepped back into the room, alone. He did not return to his seat, but threaded his way up to the table.

"Well, Jan," said the pastor, somewhat impatient, "may we hear now who it is that has been disturbing us the whole evening?"

"It was the old master of Falla who stood out there," Jan replied, not in the least astonished or excited over what he had to impart. "He wouldn't come in, but he bade me tell Lars from him to beware the first Sunday after Midsummer Day."

At first not many understood what lay back of Jan's words. Those who sat in the last rows had not heard distinctly, but they inferred from the startled look on the pastor's face that Jan must have said something dreadful. They all sprang up and began to crowd nearer the table, asking to right and left who on earth he could have been talking to.

"But Jan!" said the pastor in a firm tone, "do you know what you are saying?"

"I do indeed," returned Jan with an emphatic nod. "As soon as he had given me the message for his son-in-law he went away. 'Tell him,' he said, 'that I wish him no ill for letting me lie in the snow in my agony and not coming to my aid in time; but the Fourth Commandment is a strict one. Tell him from me he'd better repent and confess. He will have until the Sunday after Midsummer to do it in.'"

Jan spoke so rationally and delivered his strange message with such sincerity that both the pastor and the others firmly believed at first that Eric of Falla had actually stood outside the door of his old home and talked with Jan. And naturally they all turned their eyes toward Lars Gunnarson to see what effect Jan's words had had on him.

Lars only laughed. "I thought Jan sane," he said, "or I shouldn't have let him come to the meeting. The pastor will have to pardon the interruption. It is the madness breaking out again."

"Why of course!" said the pastor, relieved. For he had been on the point of believing he had come upon something supernatural. It was well, he thought, that this was only the fancy of a lunatic.

"You see, Pastor," Lars went on explaining, "Jan has no great love for me, and it's plain now he hasn't the wit to conceal it. I must confess that in a sense I'm to blame for his daughter having to go away to earn money. It's this he holds against me."

The parson, a little surprised at Lars's eager tone, gave him a searching glance. Lars did not meet that gaze, but looked away. Perceiving his mistake, he tried to look the parson in the face. Somehow he couldn't—so turned away, with an oath.

"Lars Gunnarson!" exclaimed the pastor in astonishment. "What has come over you?"

Lars immediately pulled himself together.

"Can't I be rid of this lunatic?" he said, as though Jan were the one he had sworn at. "Here stand the pastor and all my neighbours regarding me as a murderer only because a madman happens to hold a grudge against me! I tell you he wants to get back at me on account of his daughter. How could I know that she would leave home and go wrong simply because I wanted what was due me. Is there no one here who will take charge of Jan," he asked, "so that the rest of us may enjoy the service in peace?"

The pastor sat stroking his forehead. Lars's remarks troubled him; but he could not reprimand him when he had no positive proof that the man had committed a wrong. He looked around for the old mistress of Falla; but she had slipped away. Then he glanced out over the gathering, and from that quarter he got no help. He was confident that all in the room knew whether or not Lars was guilty, yet, when he turned to them, their faces looked quite blank. Meantime Katrina had come forward and taken Jan by the arm, and the two of them were then moving toward the door. Anyhow, the pastor had no desire to question a crazy man.

"I think this will do for to-night," he said quietly. "We will bring the meeting to a close." He made a short prayer, which was followed by a hymn. Whereupon the people went their ways.

The pastor was the last to leave. While Lars was seeing him to the gate he spoke quite voluntarily of that which had just taken place.

"Did you mark, Pastor, it was the Sunday after Midsummer Day I was to be on my guard?" he said. "That just shows it was the girl Jan had in mind. It was the Sunday after Midsummer of last year that I was over at Jan's place to have an understanding with him about the hut."

All these explanations only distressed the pastor the more. Of a sudden he put his hand on Lars's shoulder and tried to read his face.

"I'm not your judge, Lars Gunnarson," he said in warm, reassuring tones, "but if you have something on your conscience, you can come to me. I shall look for you every day. Only don't put it off too long!"

AN OLD TROLL

The second winter of the little girl's absence from home was an extremely severe one. By the middle of January it had grown so unbearably cold that snow had to be banked around all the little huts in the Ashdales as a protection against the elements, and every night the cows had to be covered with straw, to keep them from freezing to death.

It was so cold that the bread froze; the cheese froze, and even the butter turned to ice. The fire itself seemed unable to hold its warmth. It mattered not how many logs one laid in the fireplace, the heat spread no farther than to the edge of the hearth.

One day, when the winter was at its worst, Jan decided that instead of going out to his work he would stay at home and help Katrina keep the fire alive. Neither he nor the wife ventured outside the hut that day, and the longer they remained indoors the more they felt the cold. At five o'clock in the afternoon, when it began to grow dark, Katrina said they might as well "turn in"; it was no good their sitting up any longer, torturing themselves.

During the afternoon Jan had gone over to the window, time and again, and peered out through a little corner of a pane that had remained clear, though the rest of the glass was thickly crusted with frost flowers. And now he went back there again.

"You can go to bed, Katrina dear," he said as he stood looking out, "but I've got to stay up a while longer."

"Well I never!" ejaculated Katrina. "Why should you stay up? Why can't you go to bed as well as I?"

But Jan did not reply to her questions. "It's strange I haven't seen Agrippa Praestberg pass by yet," he said.

"Is it him you're waiting for!" snapped Katrina. "He hasn't been so extra nice to you that you need feel called upon to sit up and freeze on his account!"

Jan put up his hand with a sweep of authority—this being the only mannerism acquired during his emperorship which had not been dropped. There was no fear of Praestberg coming to them, he told her. He had heard that the old man had been invited to a drinking bout at a fisherman's but here in the Ashdales, but so far he had not seen him go by.

"I suppose he has had the good sense to stay at home," said Katrina.

It grew colder and colder. The corners of the house creaked as if the freezing wind were knocking to be let in. All the bushes and trees were covered with such thick coats of snow and rim frost they looked quite shapeless. But bushes and trees, like humans, had to clothe themselves as well as they could, in order to be protected against the cold.

In a little while Katrina observed: "I see by the clock it's only half after five, but all the same I'll put on the porridge pot and prepare the evening meal. After supper, you can sit up and wait for Praestberg or go to bed, whichever you like."

All this time Jan had stood at the window. "It can't be that he has come this way without my seeing him?" he said.

"Who cares whether a brute like him comes or doesn't come!" returned Katrina sharply, for she was tired of hearing about that old tramp.

Jan heaved a deep sigh. Katrina was more right than she herself knew. He did not care a bit whether or not old "Grippie" had passed. His saying that he was expected was merely an excuse for standing at the window.

No word or token had he received from the great Empress, the little girl of Ruffluck, since the day Lars wrested from him his majesty and glory. He felt that such a thing could never have happened without her sanction, and inferred from this that he had done something to incur her displeasure; but what he could not imagine! He had brooded over this all through the long winter evenings; through the long dark mornings, when threshing in the barn at Falla; through the short days, when carting wood from the big forest.

Everything had passed off so happily and well for him for three whole months, so of course he could not think she had been dissatisfied with his emperorship. He had then known a time such as he had never dreamed could come to a poor man like himself. But surely Glory Goldie was not offended at him for that!

No. He had done or said something which was displeasing to her, that was why he was being punished. But could it be that she was so slow to forget as never to forgive him? If she would only tell him what she was angry about! He would do anything he could to pacify her. She must see for herself how he had put on his working clothes and gone out as a day labourer as soon as she let him know that such was her wish.

He could not speak of this matter to either Katrina or the seine-maker. He would be patient and wait for some positive sign from Glory Goldie. Many times he had felt it to be so near that he had only to put out his hand and take it. That very day, shut in as he was, he had the feeling that there was a message from her on the way. This was why he stood peering out through the little clear corner of the window. He knew, also, that unless it came very soon he could not go on living.

It was so dark now that he could hardly see as far as the gate, and his hopes for that day were at an end. He had no objection to retiring at once, he said presently. Katrina dished out the porridge, the evening meal was hurridly eaten, and by a quarter after six they were abed.

They dropped off to sleep, too; but their slumbers were of short duration. The hands of the big Dalecarlian clock had barely got round to six-thirty when Jan sprang out of bed; he quickly freshened the fire, which was almost burned out, then proceeded to dress himself.

Jan tried to be as quiet as possible, but for all that Katrina was awakened; raising herself in bed she asked if it was already morning.

No, indeed it wasn't, but the little girl had called to Jan in a dream, and commanded him to go up to the forest.

Now it was Katrina's turn to sigh! It must be the madness come back, thought she. She had been expecting it every day for some little time, for Jan had been so depressed and restless of late.

She made no attempt to persuade him to stay at home, but got up, instead, and put on her clothes.

"Wait a minute!" she said, when Jan was at the door. "If you're going out into the woods to-night, then I want to go with you."

She feared Jan would raise objections, but he didn't; he remained at the door till she was ready. Though apparently anxious to be off, he seemed more controlled and rational than he had been all day.

And what a night to venture out into! The cold came against them like a rain of piercing and cutting glass-splinters. Their skins smarted and they felt as if their noses were being torn from their faces; their fingertips ached and their toes were as if they had been cut off; they hardly knew they had any toes.

Jan uttered no word of complaint, neither did Katrina; they just tramped on and on. Jan turned in on the winter-road across the heights, the one they had traversed with Glory Goldie one Christmas morning when she was so little she had to be carried.

There was a clear sky and in the west gleamed a pale crescent moon, so that the night was far from pitch dark. Still it was difficult to keep to the road because everything was so white with snow; time after time they wandered too close to the edge and sank deep into a drift. Nevertheless, they managed to make their way clear to the huge stone that had once been hurled by a giant at Svartsjoe church. Jan had already got past it when Katrina, who was a little way behind him, gave a shriek.

"Jan!" she cried out. And Jan had not heard her sound so frightened since the day Lars threatened to take their home away from them. "Can't you see there's some one sitting here?"

Jan turned and went back to Katrina. And now the two of them came near taking to their heels; for, sure enough, propped against the stone and almost covered with rim frost sat a giant troll, with a bristly beard and a beak-like nose!

The troll, or whatever it was, sat quite motionless. It had become so paralyzed from the cold that it had not been able to get back to its cave, or wherever else it kept itself nowadays.

"Think that there really are such creatures after all!" said Katrina. "I should never have believed it, for all I've heard so much about them."

Jan was the first to recover his senses and to see what it was they had come upon.

"It's no troll, Katrina," he said. "It's Agrippa Praestberg."

"Sakes alive!" gasped Katrina. "You don't tell me! From the look of him he could easily be mistaken for a troll."

"He has just fallen asleep here," observed Jan. "He can't be dead, surely!"

They shouted the old man's name and shook him; but he never stirred.

"Run back for the sled, Katrina," said Jan, "so we can draw him home. I'll stay here and rub him with snow till he wakes up."

"Just so you don't freeze to death yourself!"

"My dear Katrina," laughed Jan, "I haven't felt as warm as I feel now in many a day. I'm so happy about the little girl! Wasn't it dear of her to send us out here to save the life of him who has gone around spreading so many lies about her?"

A week or two later, as Jan was returning from his work one evening, he met Agrippa Praestberg.

"I'm right and fit again," Agrippa told him. "But I know well enough that if you and Katrina had not come to the rescue there wouldn't have been much left of Johan Utter Agrippa Praestberg by now. So I've wondered what I could do for you in return."

"Oh, don't give that a thought my good Agrippa Praestberg!" said Jan, with that upward imperial sweep of the hand.

"Hush now, while I tell you!" spoke Praestberg. "When I said I'd thought of doing you a return service, it wasn't just empty chatter. I meant it. And now it has already been done. The other day I ran across the travelling salesman who gave that lass of yours the red dress."

"Who?" cried Jan, so excited he could hardly get his breath.

"That blackguard who gave the girl the red dress and who afterward sent her to the devil in Stockholm. First I gave him, on your account, all the thrashing he could take, and then I told him that the next time he showed his face around here he'd get just as big a dose of the same kind of medicine."

Jan would not believe he had heard aright. "But what did he say?" he questioned eagerly. "Didn't you ask him about Glory Goldie? Had he no greetings from her?"

"What could he say? He took his punishment and held his tongue. Now I've done you a decent turn, Jan Anderson, and we're even. Johan Utter Agrippa Praestberg wants no unpaid scores."

With that he strode on, leaving Jan in the middle of the road, lamenting loudly. The little girl had wanted to send him a message! That merchant had come with greetings from her, but not a thing had he learned because the man had been driven away.

Jan stood wringing his hands. He did not weep, but he ached all over worse than if he were ill. He felt certain in his own mind that Glory Goldie had wanted Praestberg to take a message from her brought by the merchant and convey it to her father. But it was with Praestberg as with the trolls—whether they wanted to help or hinder they only wrought mischief.

THE SUNDAY AFTER MIDSUMMER

The first Sunday after Midsummer Day there was a grand party at the seine-maker's to which every one in the Ashdales had been invited. The old man and his daughter-in-law were in the habit of entertaining the whole countryside on this day of each year.

Folks wondered, of course, how two people who were so pitiably poor could afford to give a big feast, but to all who knew the whys and wherefores it seemed perfectly natural.

As a matter of fact, when the seine-maker was a rich man he gave his two sons a farmstead each. The elder son wasted his substance in much the same way as Ol' Bengtsa himself had done, and died poor. The younger son, who was the more steady and reliable, kept his portion and even increased it, so that now he was quite well-to-do. But what he owned at the present time was as nothing to what he might have had if his father had not recklessly made away with both money and lands, to no purpose whatever. If such wealth had only come into the hands of the son in his younger days, there is no telling to what he might have attained. He could have been owner of all the woodlands in the Lovsjoe district, had a shop at Broby, and a steamer plying Lake Loeven; he might even have been master of the ironworks at Ekeby. Naturally he found it difficult to excuse the father's careless business methods, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

When the crash came for Ol' Bengtsa, a good many persons, Bengtsa among them, expected the son to come to his aid by the sacrifice of his own property. But what good would that have done? It would only have gone to the creditors. It was with the idea in mind that the father should have something to fall back upon when all his possessions were gone, that the son had held on to his own.

It was not the fault of the younger son that Ol' Bengtsa had taken up his abode with the widow of the elder son, for he had begged the father more than a hundred times to come and live with him. The father's refusal to accept this offer seemed almost like an act of injustice; for because of it the son got the name of being mean and hard-hearted among those who knew the old man was badly off. Still, there was no ill-feeling between the two.

The son, accompanied by his wife and children, always drove down to the Ashdales over the steep and perilous mountain road once every summer, just to spend a day with his father.

If people had only known how badly he and his wife felt every time they saw the wretched hovel, the ramshackle outhouse, the stony potato patch, and the sister-in-law's ragged children, they would have understood how his heart went out to his father. The worst of all was that the father persisted in giving a big party in their honour. Every time they bade the old man good-bye they begged him not to invite all the neighbours in when they came again the next year; but he was obdurate; he would not forego his yearly feast, though he could ill afford the expense. Seeing how aged and broken he looked, one would hardly have thought there was so much of the old happy-go-lucky Ol' Bengtsa of Lusterby still left in him, but the desire to do things on a grand scale still clung to him. It had caused him misfortune from which he could never recover.

The son had learned inadvertently that the old man and the sister-in-law scrimped the whole year just to be able to give a grand spread on the day he was at home. And then it was nothing but eat, eat the whole time! He and his family were hardly out of the wagon before they were served with coffee and all kinds of tempting appetizers. And later came the dinner to all the neighbours with a fish course, a meat course, and game, and rice-cakes, and fruit-mold with whipped cream, and quantities of wines and spirits. It was enough to make one weep! He and his wife did nothing to encourage this foolishness. On the contrary, they brought with them only such plain fare as they were accustomed to have every day; but for all that they could not escape the feasting. Sometimes they felt that rather than let the old man ruin himself on their account they might better remain away altogether. Yet they feared to do so, lest their good intentions should be misinterpreted.

And what a strange company they were thrown in with at these Parties—old blacksmiths and fishermen and backwoodsmen! If such good, substantial folk as the Falla family had not been in the habit of coming, too, there would have been no one there with whom they could have exchanged a word.

Ol' Bengtsa's son had liked the late Eric of Falla best, but he also entertained in a high regard for Lars Gunnarson, the present master of Falla. Lars Gunnarson came of rather obscure people, but he was a man who had the good sense to marry well, and who would doubtless forge ahead and gain for himself both wealth and position. When the old man told his son that Lars Gunnarson was not likely to come to the party this year, the latter was very much disappointed.

"But it's no fault of mine," Ol' Bengsta declared. "Lars isn't exactly my kind, but all the same, on your account, I went down to Falla yesterday and invited him."

"Maybe he's weary of these parties," said the son.

"Oh, no," returned Ol' Bengtsa. "I'm sure he'd be only too glad to come, but there's something that's keeping him away." He did not explain further just then, but while they were having their coffee, he went back to the subject. "You mustn't feel so badly because Lars isn't coming this evening," he said. "I don't believe you'd care for his company any more."

"You don't mean that he has taken to drink?"

"That wasn't such a bad guess! He took to it suddenly in the spring, and since Midsummer Day he hasn't drawn a sober breath."

During these visits the father and son immediately they had finished their coffee always went fishing. The old man usually kept very still on these occasions, so as not to scare the fish away, but this year was the exception. He spoke to the son time and again. His words came with difficulty, as always, still there seemed to be more life in him now than ordinarily. Evidently there was something special he wanted to say, or rather something he wished to draw from his son. He was like one who stands outside an empty house shouting and calling, in the hope that somebody will come and open the door to him.

He harked back to Lars Gunnarson several times, relating in part what had occurred at the catechetical meeting, and he even dragged in all the gossip that had been circulated about Lars in the Ashdales since Eric's death.

The son granted that Lars might not be altogether blameless; if he had now begun drinking it was a bad sign.

"I'm curious to see how he'll get through this day," said Ol' Bengtsa.

Just then the son felt a nibble, and did not have to answer. There was nothing in this whole story that had any bearing upon the common interests of himself and his father, yet he could not but feel there was some hidden intent back of the old man's words.

"I hope he'll drive over to the parsonage this evening," pursued Ol' Bengtsa. "There is forgiveness of sins for him who will seek it."

A long silence ensued. The son was too busy baiting his hook to think of replying. Besides, this was not anything which called for a response. Presently there came from the old man such a heavy sigh that he had to look over toward him.

"Father! Can't you see you've got a nibble? I believe you are letting the perch jerk the rod away from you."

The old man quickly pulled up his line and released the fish from the hook. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs and the perch slipped from his hands back into the water.

"It isn't meant that I shall catch any fish to-day, however much I may want to."

Yes, there was certainly something he wished the son to say—to Confess—but surely he did not expect him to liken himself to one who was suspected of having caused the death of his father-in-law?

Ol' Bengtsa did not bait his hook again. He stood upon a stone, with his hands folded—his half-dead eyes fixed on the smooth water.

"Yes—there is pardon for all," he said musingly, "for all who let their old parents lie waiting and freezing in icy chilliness— pardon even to this day. But afterward it will be too late!"

Surely this could never have been said for the son's benefit. The father was no doubt thinking aloud, as is the habit of old people.

Anyhow, the son thought he would try to make the old man talk about something else. So he said:

"How is the man who went crazy last year getting on?"

"Oh, you mean Jan of Ruffluck! Well, he has been in his right mind since last fall. He'll not be at the party, either. He's only a poor crofter like myself; so him you'll not miss, of course."

This was true enough. However, the son was so glad of an excuse to speak of some one other than Lars Gunnarson, that he asked with genuine concern what was wrong with Jan of Ruffluck.

"Oh, he's just sick from pining for a daughter who went away about two years ago, and who never writes to him."

"The girl who went wrong?"

"So you knew about it, eh? But it isn't because of that he's grieving himself to death. It is the awful hardness and lack of love that he can't bear up under."

This forced colloquy was becoming intolerable. It made the son feel all the more uncomfortable.

"I'm going over to the stone farthest out," he said. "I see a lot of fish splashing round it."

By that move he was out of earshot of his father, and there was no further conversation between them for the remainder of the forenoon. But go where he would, he felt that the dim, lustreless eyes of the old man were following him. And this time he was actually glad when the guests arrived.

The dinner was served out of doors. When Ol' Bengtsa had taken his place at the board he tried to cast off all worry and anxiety. When acting as host at a party, so much of the Ol' Bengtsa of bygone days came to the fore it was easy to guess what manner of man he had once been.

No one from Falla was present. But it was plain that Lars Gunnarson was in every one's thoughts; which was not surprising since this was the day he had been warned to look out for. Now of course Ol' Bengtsa's son had to listen to further talk about the catechetical meeting at Falla, and he heard more about the pastor's extraordinary dissertation on the duties of children toward their parents than he cared to hear. However, he said nothing; but Ol' Bengtsa must have noticed that he was beginning to be bored, for he turned to him with the remark:

"What do you say to all this, Nils? I suppose you're sitting there thinking to yourself it's very strange Our Lord hasn't written a commandment for parents on how they shall treat their children?"

This was wholly unexpected. The son could feel the blood mounting to his face. It was as if he had done something dreadful, and been caught at it.

"But my dear father!" he protested, "I've never said or thought—"

"True," the old man struck in, turning now to his guests. "I know you will hardly believe what I tell you, but it's a fact that this son of mine has never spoken an unkind word to me; neither has his wife."

These remarks were not addressed to any one in particular, nor did any one feel disposed to respond to them.

"They have been put to some pretty hard tests," Ol' Bengtsa went on. "It was a large property they were deprived of. They could have been landed proprietors by this time if I had only done the right thing. Yet they have never uttered a word of complaint and every summer they pay me a visit, just to show they are not angry with me."

The old man's face looked so dead now, and his voice sounded so hollow! The son could not tell whether he was trying to come out with something or whether he talked merely for talk's sake.

"Now it's altogether different with Lisa," said Ol' Bengtsa, pointing at the daughter-in-law with whom he lived. "She scolds me every day for not holding on to my property."

The daughter-in-law, not in the least perturbed, retorted with a good-natured laugh: "And you scold me because I can't find time to patch all the holes in the boys' clothes."

"That's true," the old man admitted. "You see, we're not shy; we say right out what we think and tell each other everything. What I've got is hers, and what she's got is mine; so I'm beginning to think it is she who is my real child."

Again the son felt embarrassed, and troubled as well.

There was something the old man wanted to force from him—something of a personal nature; but surely he could not expect it to be forthcoming here, before all this company?

It was a great relief to the son of Ol' Bengtsa when on looking up he saw Lars Gunnarson and his wife standing at the gate. Not he alone, but every one was glad to see them. Now it was as if all their gloomy misgivings had suddenly been dispelled.

Lars and his wife made profuse apologies for being so late. Lars had been suffering from a bad headache and had feared he would not be able to come at all; but it had abated somewhat so he decided to come to the party, thinking he would forget about his aches and pains if he got out among people.

He looked a bit hollow-eyed, but he was as jolly and sociable as he had been the year before. He had barely got down the first mouthful of food when he and the son of Ol' Bengtsa fell to talking of the lumber business, of big profits and interest on loans.

The poor rustics round about them, aghast at the mere mention of these large figures, were afraid to open their mouths. Ol' Bengtsa was the only one who wanted to have his say in the matter.

"Since you're talking of money," he said, "I wonder, Nils, if you remember that note for 17,000 rix-dollars I got from the old ironmaster at Doveness? It was mislaid, if you recollect, and couldn't be found at the time when I was in such hard straits. Just the same, I wrote to the ironmaster requesting immediate payment; but received the reply that he was dying. Later on, after his death, the administrators of the estate declared they could find no record of my claim. I was informed that it wasn't possible for them to pay me unless I produced the note. We searched high and low for it, both I and my sons, but we couldn't find it."

"You don't mean to tell me that you've come across it at last!" the son exclaimed.

"It was the strangest thing imaginable!" the old man went on. "Jan of Ruffluck came over here one morning and told me he knew for a certainty that the note was in the secret drawer of my cedar chest. He had seen me take it out in a dream, he said."

"But you must have looked there?"

"Yes, I did search through the secret drawer on the left-hand side. But Jan said it was in the drawer on the right, and then, when I looked more carefully, I found a secret drawer that I'd never known about; and in that lay the note."

"You probably put it there some time when you were in your cups."

"Very likely I did."

The son laid down his knife and fork for a moment, then took them up again. Something in the old man's tone made him a bit wary. "Maybe it's just a hoax," he thought to himself. Aloud he said, "it was outlawed, of course?"

"Oh, yes," replied the old man, "it would doubtless have been so regarded by any other debtor. But I rowed across to Doveness one day and took the note to the new ironmaster, who admitted at once that it was good. 'It's as clear as day that I must pay my father's debt, Ol' Bengtsa,' he said. 'But you'll have to give me a few weeks' grace. It is a large sum to pay out all at once.'"

"That was spoken like a man of honour!" said the son, bringing his hand down heavily on the table. A sense of gladness stole in upon him in spite of his suspicions. To think that it was something so splendid the old man had been holding back from him the whole day!

"I told the ironmaster that he needn't pay me just then; that if he would only give me a new note the money could remain in his safekeeping."

"That was well," said the son approvingly. There was a strong, glad ring in his voice, that betrayed an eagerness he would rather not have shown, for he knew of old that one could never be quite sure of Ol' Bengtsa—in the very next breath he might say it was just a yarn.

"You don't believe me," observed the old man. "Would you like to see the note? Run in and get it, Lisa!"

Almost immediately the son had the note before his eyes. First he glanced at the signature, and recognized the firm, legible hand of the ironmaster. Then he looked at the figures, and found them correct. He nodded to his wife, who sat opposite him, that it was all right, at the same time passing the note to her, knowing how interested she would be to see it.

The wife examined the note carefully. "What does this mean?" she asked—"'Payable to Lisa Persdotter of Lusterby'—is Lisa to have the money?"

"Yes," the old man answered. "She gets this money because she has been a good daughter to me."

"But this is unfair—"

"No, it is not unfair," drawled the old man in a tired voice. "I have squared myself and owe nobody anything. I might have had one other creditor," he added turning to this son, "but after looking into matters, I find that I haven't."

"You mean me, I suppose," said the son. "But you don't seem to think I—" All that the son had wanted to say to the father was left unsaid, as he was interrupted by a piercing shriek from the opposite side of the table.

Lars Gunnarson had just seized a bottle of brandy and put it to his mouth. His wife, screaming from terror, was trying to take it from him. He held her back until he had emptied half the contents, whereupon he set the bottle down and turned to his wife, his face flushed, his eyes staring wildly, his hands clenched.

"Didn't you hear it was Jan who found the note?" he said in a hoarse voice. "All his dreams come true! Can't you comprehend that the man has the gift of second sight? You'll see that something dreadful will happen to me this day, as he has predicted."

"Why he has only cautioned you to be on your guard," said the wife.

"You begged and teased me to come here so that I should forget what day it was, and now I get this reminder!"

Again Lars raised the brandy bottle to his lips. This time, however, the wife cast herself upon him with prayers and tears. Replacing the bottle on the table, he said with a laugh: "Keep it! Keep it for all of me!" With that he rose and kicked the chair out of his way. "Good-bye to you, Ol' Bengtsa," he said to the host. "I hope you will pardon my leaving, but to-day I must go to a place where I can drink in peace."

He rushed toward the gate, his wife following. When he was passing out into the road, he pushed her back. "Why can't you let me be!" he cried fiercely. "I've had my warning, and I go to meet my doom!"

SUMMERNIGHT

All day, while the party was going on at the seine-maker's, Jan of Ruffluck kept to his hut. But at evening he went out and sat down up on the flat stone in front of the house, as was his wont. He was not ill exactly, but he felt weak and tired. The hut had become so overheated during the long, hot sunny day that he thought it would be nice to get a breath of fresh air. He found, however, that it was not much cooler outside, but he sat still all the same, mostly because there was so much out here that was beautiful to the eye.

It had been an excessively hot and dry month of June and forest fires, which always rage every rainless summer, had already got going. This he could tell by the pretty bluish-white smoke banks that rose above the hills at the other side of the lake. Presently, away off to southward, a shimmery white curly cloud head appeared, while in the west, over against Great Peak, huge smoke-blended clouds rolled up and up. It seemed to him as if the whole world were afire.

No flames could be seen from where he sat, but there was no mistaking that fire had broken out and could hold sway indefinitely. He only hoped it would confine itself to the forest trees, and not sweep down upon huts and farmsteads.

He could scarcely breathe. It was as if such quantities of air had been consumed that there was very little of it left. At short intervals he sensed an odour, as of something burning, that stuck in his nostrils. That odour did not come from any cook stove in the Ashdales! It was a salutation from the great stake of pine needles, and moss, and brushwood that sizzled and burned many miles away.

A little while ago the sun had gone down, red as fire, leaving in its wake enough colour to tint the whole sky, which was now rose hued not only across that corner of it where the sun had just been seen, but over its entire expanse. At the same time the waters of Dove Lake had become as dark as mirror glass in the shadow of the towering hills. In this black-looking water ran streaks of red blood and molten gold.

It was the sort of night that makes one feel that the earth is not worthy a glance; that only the heavens and the waters that mirror them are worth seeing.

As Jan sat gazing out at the beauties of the light summer night he suddenly began to wonder. Could it be that he saw aright? But it actually looked as if the firmament were sinking. Anyway, to his vision it was much nearer to the earth than usual.

Could it be possible that something had gone wrong? Surely his eyes were not deceiving him! The great pink dome of sky was certainly moving down toward the earth, and all the while it was becoming hotter and more oppressive. He already felt the terrible heat that seemed to come from the red-hot dome that was sinking toward him.

To be sure Jan had heard a good deal of talk about the coming destruction of the world and had often pictured it as being effected by means of thunder-storms and earthquakes that would hurl the mountains into the seas and drive the waters of the lakes and rivers over plains and valleys, so that all life would become extinct. But he never imagined the end should come in this way: by the earth's burial under the vault of heaven with its inhabitants all dying from heat and suffocation! This, it seemed to him, was the worst of all.

He put down his pipe, though it was only half-smoked, but remained quietly seated in the one spot. For what else could he do? This was not something which he could ward off—something he could run away from. One could not take up arms and defend one's self against it, nor find safety by creeping into cellars or caves. Even if one had the power to empty all the oceans and lakes, their waters would not suffice to quench the fires of the firmament. If one could uproot the mountains and prop them, beam-like, against the sky, they could not hold up this heavy dome if it was meant that it should sink.

Singularly enough no one but himself seemed to be aware of what was happening.

Ah, look! What was that that went shooting up above the crest of the hill over yonder? A lot of black specks suddenly appeared in among the pale smoke clouds. These specks whirled round each other with such rapidity that to Jan's eyes they looked like a succession of streaks moving in much the same way as when bees swarm.

They were birds of course. The strange part of it was that they had risen in the night and soared into the clouds.

They probably knew more than the human kind, thought Jan, for they had sensed that something was about to happen.

Instead of the air becoming cooler, as on other nights, it grew warmer and warmer. Anything else was hardly to be expected, with the fiery dome coming nearer and nearer. Jan thought it had already sunk to the brow of Great Peak.

But if the end of the world was so close at hand and there was no hope of his getting any word from Glory Goldie, much less of his seeing her, before all was over, then he would pray for but a single grace—that it might be made clear to him what he had done to offend her, so that he could repent of it before the end of everything pertaining to the earth life. What had he done that she could not forgive nor forget? Why had the crown and sceptre been taken away from him?

As he put these queries to himself his glance fell upon a bit of gilt paper that lay glittering on the ground in front of him. But his mind was not on such things now. This must have been one of the paper stars he had borrowed of Mad Ingeborg. But he had not given a thought to this empty show since last autumn.

It kept getting hotter and hotter, and it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. "The end is nearing," thought Jan. "Maybe it's just as well it wasn't too long coming."

A great sense of lassitude came over him. Unable to sit up any longer, he slipped down off the stone and stretched himself out on the ground. He felt it was hardly fair to Katrina not to let her know what was taking place. But Katrina had gone to the seine-maker's party and was not back yet. If he only had the strength to drag himself thither! He would have liked to say a word of farewell to Ol' Bengtsa, too. He was very glad when he presently saw Katrina coming down the lane, accompanied by the seine-maker. He wanted to call out to them to hurry, but not a sound could he get past his lips. Shortly afterward the two of them stood bending over him.

Katrina immediately ran for water and made him drink some; and then he got back just enough strength to tell them that the Last judgment was at hand.

"How you talk!" said Katrina. "The Last Judgment indeed! Why, you've got fever, man, and you're out of your head."

Then Jan turned to the seine-maker. "Can't you see either that the firmament is sinking and sinking?"

The latter did not give him any reply, but turned instead to Katrina, saying:

"This is pretty serious. I think we'll have to try the remedy we talked of on the way. I may as well go down to Falla at once."

"But Lars will never consent to it."

"Why you know that Lars has gone down to the tavern. I'm sure the old mistress of Falla will have the courage—"

Jan cut him short. He could not bear to hear them speak of commonplace matters when such momentous things were in the air.

"Stop talking," he said. "Don't you hear the last trump? Don't you hear the rumbling up in the mountains?"

They paused a moment and listened, just to please Jan. And then they, too, heard a strange noise.

"There's a wagon rattling along in the woods," said Katrina. "What on earth can that mean?"

As the rumbling noise grew more and more distinct, their astonishment increased.

"And it's Sunday, too!" observed Katrina. "Now if this were a weekday you could understand it; but who can it be that's out driving in the woods on a Sunday night?"

She listened again. Then she heard the scraping of wheels against stones and the clatter of hoofs along the steep forest road.

"Do you hear?" asked Jan. "Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said Katrina. "But no matter who comes I've got to get the bed ready for you at once. It's that I have to think of."

"And I'm going down to Falla," said the seine-maker. "That's more important than anything else. Good-bye for the present."

The old man hurried away while Katrina went in to prepare the bed; she was hardly inside the door when the rattling noise, which she and the seine-maker believed was caused by a common wagon, sounded as if it were almost upon them. To Jan it was the rumble of heavy war chariots, at whose approach the whole earth trembled. He called in a loud voice to Katrina, who came out immediately.

"Dear heart, don't be so scared!" she said reassuringly. "I can see the horse now. It's the old bay from Falla. Sit up and you'll see it, too." Slipping her hand under Jan's neck she raised him to a sitting posture. Through the elder bushes at the edge of the road a horse could be seen running wildly in the direction of Ruffluck. "Don't you see it's only Lars Gunnarson driving home? He must have drunk himself full at the tavern, for he doesn't seem to know which way he's going."

When Katrina said that a horse and wagon dashed by their gate. Both she and Jan noticed that the wagon was empty and the horse driverless.

All at once she let out a shriek: "Lord deliver us! Did you see him, Jan? He's being dragged alongside the wagon!" Without waiting for a reply she rushed across the yard into the road, where the horse had just bolted past.

Jan let her go without a word. He was glad to be alone again. He had not yet found an answer to his query as to why the Empress was angry at him.

The bit of gilt paper now lay directly under his eyes. It glistened so that he had to look at it again and again. Meanwhile his thoughts went back to Mad Ingeborg—to the time when he had come upon her at the Borg landing. It struck him instantly that here was the answer he had been seeking. Now he knew what it was the little girl had been displeased about all this while. He had been unkind to Mad Ingeborg; he should never have refused to let her go along to Portugallia.

How could he ever have imagined anything so mean of the great Empress as that she would not want to have Mad Ingeborg with her! It was that kind that she liked best to help. No wonder she was angry! He ought to have known that the poor and unfortunate were always welcome in her kingdom.

There was very little that could be done in this matter if no to-morrow dawned, mused Jan. But what if there should be one? Ah, then he would go and talk with Mad Ingeborg first thing.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands. Anyway, it was a blissful relief to him that this anxiety had been stilled. Now it would not be nearly so hard to die. He had no idea as to how much time had elapsed before he again heard Katrina's voice close to him.

"Jan, dear, how do you feel now? You're not going to die and leave me, are you?"

Katrina sounded so doleful that he had to look up at her. Then he saw in her hand the imperial stick and the green leather cap.