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the small squares might have been samplers of all
that could be set or sown.
It belonged to the children.
And Lilliecrona suddenly lifted his violin to his
chin and commenced to play. The birds were beginning
to sing in the big clump of bushes that sheltered
the garden from the north wind. It was impossible
for any mortal gifted with a voice to be silent—the
morning was so fair. The violin-bow played by itself.
Lilliecrona walked up and down the paths and
played. “No,” he thought, “there can be no lovelier
place than my home.” What was Ekeby in comparison?
His home was thatched with turf and was
but one story high. It lay in the forest clearing, with
the mountains above and the long dale before it.
There was nothing wonderful about it—there was
no lake, no waterfall, no shores nor park, but it was
very beautiful for all that. It was beautiful, because
it was a good and peaceful home. Life was easy
to live there. Things that, in other places, would
have brought forth bitterness and anger were here
smoothed away so mildly. Thus it should be in a
true home.
The lady of the house lay sleeping in a room
which overlooked the garden. She awoke suddenly
and listened. She did not move—but lay and smiled
to herself. The music approached, until it seemed
as if the musician stood under her window. It was
not the first time he had stood there. He, her
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