In the afternoon Ingmar Ingmarson's wife and son drove to the Dean's house to announce his death. The son was spokesman, and the old housewife sat and listened with a face as immovable as a stone figure.
The Dean sat in his easy-chair near his writing-table. He had entered the death in the register. He had done it rather slowly; he wanted time to consider what he should say to the widow and the son, for this was, indeed, an unusual case. The son had frankly told him how it had all happened, but the Dean was anxious to know how they themselves looked at it. They were peculiar people, the Ingmars.
When the Dean had closed the book, the son said:
'We wanted to tell you, sir, that we do not wish any account of father's life to be read in church.'
The Dean pushed his spectacles over his forehead and looked searchingly at the old woman. She sat just as immovable as before. She only crumpled the handkerchief a little which she held in her hand.
'We wish to have him buried on a week day,' continued the son.
'Indeed!' said the Dean.
He could hardly believe his own ears. Old Ingmar Ingmarson to be buried without anyone taking any notice of it! The congregation not to stand on railings and mounds in order to see the display when he was being carried to the grave!
'There will not be any funeral feast. We have let the neighbours know that they need not think of preparing anything for the funeral.'
'Indeed, indeed!' said the Dean again.