"I've bought the Ljung Farm," he said. "I tell you this now so that you may know you've always got a place to come to." Then he took the eldest of the children by the hand, and said: "Remember, now, that you have a house and land to come back to, should you want to return to the old country." He went from one child to the other, even to little Eric, who was only two years old and couldn't understand what it all meant. "The rest of you youngsters must not forget to tell little Eric that he has a home to return to whenever he wants to come back."
And the Jerusalem-farers went on.
***
When the long line of carts and wagons had passed the churchyard, the travellers came upon a large crowd of friends and relatives who had come out to bid them goodbye. They had a long halt here, for everybody wanted to shake hands with them, and say a few parting words.
And later, when they drove through the village, the road was lined with people who wished to witness their departure. There were people standing on every doorstep and leaning out of every window; they sat upon the low stone hedges all along the way, and those who lived farther off stood on mounds and hills waving a last farewell.
The long procession moved slowly past all these people until it came to the home of Councilman Lars Clementsson, where it halted. Here Gunhild got down to say good-bye to her folks.
Gunhild had been staying at the Ingmar Farm since deciding to go with the others to Jerusalem. She had felt that this was preferable to living at home in constant strife with her parents, who could not become reconciled to the thought of her going.
As Gunhild stepped down from the cart she noticed that the place looked quite deserted. There was not a soul to be seen, either outside or at the windows. When she reached the gate she found it locked. She stepped over the stile into the yard. Even the front door of the house was fastened. Then Gunhild went round to the kitchen door; it was hooked on the inside! She knocked several times, but as no one came she pulled the door toward her, inserted a stick in the crack, and lifted the hook. So she finally got in. There was no one in the kitchen, nor was there any one in the living-room, nor yet in the inner room.
Gunhild did not want to go away without letting her parents know that she had been to say good-bye to them. She went over to the big combination desk and bureau, where her father always kept his writing materials, and drew down the lid. She could not at first find the ink, so looked for it in drawers and pigeonholes. While searching, she came upon a small casket which she remembered well. It was her mother's—she had received it from her husband as a wedding present. When Gunhild was a little girl her mother had often shown it to her. The casket was enamelled in white, with a garland of hand-painted flowers. On the inside of the lid was a picture of a shepherd piping to a flock of white lambs. Gunhild now opened the box to take a last peep at the shepherd.
In this casket Gunhild's mother had always kept her most cherished keepsakes-the worn-down wedding ring which had belonged to her mother, the old-fashioned watch which had been her father's, and her own gold earrings. But when Gunhild opened the box, she found that all these things had been taken out, and in their place lay a letter. It was a letter that she herself had written. A year or two before, she had made a trip to Mora by boat across Lake Siljan. The boat had capsized. Some of her fellow-passengers were drowned, and her parents had been told that she, too, had perished. It flashed upon Gunhild that her mother must have been made so happy on receiving a letter from her daughter telling of her safety, that she had taken everything else out of the casket, and placed the letter there as her most priceless treasure.