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the scythe sat down on the edge of the bed, and
his mother listened for the death-rattle as for soft
music. When all was over, tears sprang to her eyes;
but they were tears of joy that fell upon the rigid
face of her son.
Never was my shadowy friend so honored as
at the funeral of Ferdinand Uggla! Had he dared
show himself, he would have come in
gold-embroidered cloak and feathered biretta, and danced
at the head of the funeral procession. Instead, the
lonely, friendless old man, in his black mantle,
sat huddied on the cemetery wall and viewed the
pageant.
That was a wonderful funeral! Sunshine and
bright skies made the day glad; long rows of golden
rye-sheaves adorned the fields, the nasturtiums
in the rector’s garden shimmered, light and
transparent, and in the sexton’s rose-garden shone
dahlias and carnations.
It was indeed a wonderful procession that passed
under the lindens that day! In front of the
flower-decked casket pretty children strewed blossoms.
There was not a mourning dress to be seen, not a
crêpe veil; for the Captain’s wife had decreed that
he who died rejoicing should not be followed to his
quiet retreat by a gloomy funeral cortège, but by
a gay wedding train.
Close behind the casket walked Anna Stjärnhök,
the radiantly beautiful bride, in a wedding dress of
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