The son had learned inadvertently that the old man and the sister-in-law scrimped the whole year just to be able to give a grand spread on the day he was at home.  And then it was nothing but eat, eat the whole time!  He and his family were hardly out of the wagon before they were served with coffee and all kinds of tempting appetizers.  And later came the dinner to all the neighbours with a fish course, a meat course, and game, and rice-cakes, and fruit-mold with whipped cream, and quantities of wines and spirits.  It was enough to make one weep!  He and his wife did nothing to encourage this foolishness.  On the contrary, they brought with them only such plain fare as they were accustomed to have every day; but for all that they could not escape the feasting.  Sometimes they felt that rather than let the old man ruin himself on their account they might better remain away altogether.  Yet they feared to do so, lest their good intentions should be misinterpreted.

And what a strange company they were thrown in with at these Parties—­old blacksmiths and fishermen and backwoodsmen!  If such good, substantial folk as the Falla family had not been in the habit of coming, too, there would have been no one there with whom they could have exchanged a word.

Ol’ Bengtsa’s son had liked the late Eric of Falla best, but he also entertained in a high regard for Lars Gunnarson, the present master of Falla.  Lars Gunnarson came of rather obscure people, but he was a man who had the good sense to marry well, and who would doubtless forge ahead and gain for himself both wealth and position.  When the old man told his son that Lars Gunnarson was not likely to come to the party this year, the latter was very much disappointed.

“But it’s no fault of mine,” Ol’ Bengsta declared.  “Lars isn’t exactly my kind, but all the same, on your account, I went down to Falla yesterday and invited him.”

“Maybe he’s weary of these parties,” said the son.

“Oh, no,” returned Ol’ Bengtsa.  “I’m sure he’d be only too glad to come, but there’s something that’s keeping him away.”  He did not explain further just then, but while they were having their coffee, he went back to the subject.  “You mustn’t feel so badly because Lars isn’t coming this evening,” he said.  “I don’t believe you’d care for his company any more.”

“You don’t mean that he has taken to drink?”

“That wasn’t such a bad guess!  He took to it suddenly in the spring, and since Midsummer Day he hasn’t drawn a sober breath.”

During these visits the father and son immediately they had finished their coffee always went fishing.  The old man usually kept very still on these occasions, so as not to scare the fish away, but this year was the exception.  He spoke to the son time and again.  His words came with difficulty, as always, still there seemed to be more life in him now than ordinarily.  Evidently there was something special he wanted to say, or rather something he wished to draw from his son.  He was like one who stands outside an empty house shouting and calling, in the hope that somebody will come and open the door to him.