When I reached the church they were carrying a dead man upon a bier. The pall bearers put their burden down, to wait for the pastor and the clerk. It looked as though the pastor was still quarreling with the clerk, and he said: “I tell you the rascals are stealing from me.”
“Whom are they burying?” I asked of some one near.
“Svältbacka Matti. He died driving to the city.”
Now I understood. A shudder ran over me. My old traveling companion was dead. He had put forth too great an effort to make the journey. That was the reason he could not return and prevent the auction.
The clerk read the psalm:
“Great suffering and sorrow in the valley of tears,” etc.—Probably Matti’s pastor chose this psalm. His sharp eyes and instinct had told him that it was appropriate.
When we reached the grave and the pastor began to bless the last place of rest, he took the shovel, stuck it in the ground, lifted up earth three times and threw it upon the coffin of the dead man. With great pathos then he exclaimed: “Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.” When he had thrown the wet and frozen earth upon Matti’s coffin, it seemed to me I could hear a voice saying: “He’s a fine preacher. I don’t blame the pastor—I wouldn’t steal—but I couldn’t pay.”
Among the mourners I looked for Matti’s wife. This woman who had been tried in sorrow was
