had driven Ruster did not come home. The cook
wept; the maids scolded.

Finally Liljekrona remembered that no sheaves had been put out for
the sparrows, and he complained aloud of all the women about him
who abandoned old customs and were new-fangled and heartless. They
understood well enough that what tormented him was remorse that he
had let little Ruster go away from his home on Christmas Eve.

After a while he went to his room, shut the door and began to play
as he had not played since he had ceased roaming. It was full of
hate and scorn, full of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me,
but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make me as small-minded
as yourselves, but I turn to larger things, to the open. Commonplace
people, slaves of the home, hold me prisoner if it is in your
power!

When his wife heard the music, she said: "Tomorrow he is gone, if
God does not work a miracle in the night. Our inhospitableness has
brought on just what we thought we could avoid."

In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the snowstorm. He went
from one house to the other and asked if there was any work for him
to do, but he was not received anywhere. They did not even ask him
to get out of the sledge. Some had their houses full of guests,
others were going away on Christmas Day. "Drive to the next
neighbor," they all said.

He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary day, but not of
Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve came but once a year, and the children
had been rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They could
not put that man at a table where there were children. Formerly
they had been glad to see him, but not since he had become a
drunkard. Where should they put the fellow, moreover? The servants'
room was too plain and the guest-room too fine.

So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in the blinding
snow. His wet moustache hung limply down over his mouth; his eyes
were bloodshot and blurred, but the brandy was blown out of his
brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed. Was it possible, was it
possible that no one wished to receive him?

Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how miserable and degraded
he was, and he understood that he was odious to people. "It is the
end of me," he thought. "No more copying of music, no more
flute-playing. No one on earth needs me; no one has compassion on
me."

The storm whirled and played, tore apart the drifts and piled them
up again, took a