ess. He cursed, that he by his discourse
had converted his wife and daughter. He had possessed the most
precious of gifts and lost it. His pain was extreme.--But it is
not by such grief that genius lives.

He was a painter without hands, a singer who had lost his voice. He
had only spoken of his sorrow. What should he speak of now?

He prayed: "O God, when honor is dumb, and misjudgment speaks, give
me back misjudgment! When happiness is dumb, but sorrow speaks,
give me back sorrow!"

But the crown was taken from him. He sat there, more miserable than
the most miserable, for he had been cast down from the heights of
life. He was a fallen king.

A CHRISTMAS GUEST

0ne of those who had lived the life of a pensioner at Ekeby was
little Ruster, who could transpose music and play the flute. He was
of low origin and poor, without home and without relations. Hard
times came to him when the company of pensioners were dispersed.

He then had no horse nor carriole, no fur coat nor red-painted
luncheon-basket. He had to go on foot from house to house and carry
his belongings tied in a blue striped cotton handkerchief. He
buttoned his coat all the way up to his chin, so that no one should
need to know in what condition his shirt and waistcoat were, and in
its deep pockets he kept his most precious possessions: his flute
taken to pieces, his flat brandy bottle and his music-pen.

His profession was to copy music, and if it bad been as in the old
days, there would have been no lack of work for him. But with every
passing year music was less practised in Vaermland. The guitar, with
its mouldy, silken ribbon and its worn screws, and the dented horn,
with faded tassels and cord were put away in the lumber-room in the
attic, and the dust settled inches deep on the long, iron-bound
violin boxes. Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute and
music-pen, so much the more must he turn to the brandy flask, and
at last he became quite a drunkard. It was a great pity.

He was still received at the manor-houses as an old friend, but
there were complaints when he came and joy when he went. There was
an odor of dirt and brandy about him, and if he had only a couple
of glasses of wine or one toddy, he grew confused and told unpleasant
stories. He was the torment of the hospitable houses.

One Christmas he came to Loefdala, where Liljekrona, the great
violinist, had his home. Liljekrona had also been one of the
pensioners of Eke