A great number of entries in red and blue pencil followed: “Servants’ Registry Office”—the maid had left and a new one had to be engaged. “The chemist’s”—hm! life was growing dark. “The dairy”—milk had been ordered—sterilised milk!
“Butcher, grocer, etc.” The affairs of the house were being conducted by telephone; it argued that the mistress was not at her post. No, she wasn’t, for she was laid up.
He could not read what followed, for it grew dark before his eyes; he might have been a drowning man trying to see through salt water. And yet, there it was written, plainly enough: “undertaker—a large coffin and a small one.” And the word “dust” was added in parenthesis.
It was the last word of the whole record. It ended with “dust”! and that is exactly what happens in life.
He took the yellow paper, kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.
In two minutes he had lived again through two years of his life.
But he was not bowed down as he left the house. On the contrary, he carried his head high, like a happy and proud man, for he knew that the best things life has to bestow had been given to him. And he pitied all those from whom they are withheld.
CONQUERING HERO AND FOOL
It was on the evening of a spring day in 1880 (a day which will never be forgotten in Sweden, because it is the day of commemoration of a national event), when an old couple, simple country people, were standing on the headland at the entrance to the harbour of Stockholm, looking at the dark watercourse under the dim stars, and watching a man who was busy with a dark, undefinable object on the landing bridge. They stood there for a long, long time, now gazing at the dark watercourse, now looking at the brilliant lights of the town.