the grave-digger. Now no one has to be buried up there who does not
ask it.

The graves are not beautiful. There are few who know how to make
the resting-place of the dead attractive. But the fresh green sheds
its peace and beauty over them all. It is strangely solemn to know
that those who are buried are glad to lie there. The living who go
up after a day hot with work, go there as among friends. Those who
sleep have also loved the lofty trees and the stillness.

If a stranger comes up there, they do not tell him of death and
loss; they sit down on the big slabs of stone, on the broad
burgomaster tombs, and tell him about Petter Nord, the Värmland
boy, and of his love. The story seems fitting to be told up here,
where death has lost its terrors. The consecrated earth seems to
rejoice at having also been the scene of awakened happiness and
new-born life.

For it happened that after Petter Nord ran away from Halfvorson, he
sought refuge in the graveyard.

At first he ran towards the bridge over the river and turned his
steps towards the big town. But on the bridge the unfortunate
fugitive stopped. The kingly crown on his brow was quite gone. It
had disappeared as if it had been spun of sunbeams. He was deeply
bent with sorrow; his whole body shook; his heart throbbed; his
brain burned like fire.

Then he thought he saw the Spirit of Fasting coming towards him for
the third time. She was much more friendly, much more compassionate