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of this whole blessed house, where everything
except work thrives so contentedly?”
But the dinner-hour came, and the family assembled.
Ferdinand, the quiet son of the house, and his
sisters arrived with the borrowed horse-radish. The
Captain, coming home from his shooting, had taken
a dip in the ice-covered river, and came in hearty
and strong, wrung Gösta’s hand, and threw up the
windows to let in the fresh air. Fru Uggla appeared,
dressed in silk, with wide lace falling over the white
hands which Gösta was allowed to kiss.
They all welcomed him gladly, jokes passed
from one to the other, and they laughingly teased
him.
“Well, how are you all at Ekeby—how do you
like the promised land?”
“It flows with milk and honey,” he answered.
“We empty the mountains of their iron, and fill our
cellars with wine. The fields bear gold with which
we gild life’s misery, and we fell our forests to build
pavilions and skittle-alleys.”
But Fru Uggla sighed and smiled, and one word
escaped her lips—“Poet.”
“There are many sins on my conscience,”
answered Gösta, “but I’ve never written a line of
poetry.”
“But still you are a poet, Gösta you can’t rid
yourself of that name. You have lived through more
poems than our poets have ever written.”
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