He sat all by himself on a corner bench, quite silent. Here nobody
came up to chat with him about the Empress, and he seemed a bit
dejected. When he left home Katrina had begged him not to come to
this funeral, because the folks at this farm were of too good stock
to cringe to either kings or emperors. It looked now as if she were
right about it. For old peasants who have lived on the same farm
from time immemorial consider themselves the superiors of the
titled aristocracy.

It was a slow proceeding bringing together those who were to be at
the first table. The host and hostess moved about a long while
seeking the highest worthies, but somehow they failed to come up to
him.

Not far from the Emperor sat a couple of old spinsters, chatting,
who had not the least expectation of being called up then. They
were speaking of Linnart, son of the late Björn Hindrickson, saying
it was well that he had come home in time for a reconciliation with
his father.

Not that there had been any actual enmity between father and son,
but it happened that some thirty years earlier, when the son was
two and twenty and wanted to marry, he had asked the old man to let
him take over the management of the farm, so that he could be his
own master. This Björn had flatly refused to do. He wanted the son
to stay at home and go on working under him and then to take over
the property when the old man was no more. "No," was the son's
answer. "I'll not stay at home and be your servant even though you
are my father. I prefer to go out in the world and make a home for
myself, for I must be as good a man as you are, or the feeling of