The Dean of Sunne at that time was no less a personage than the venerable Anders Fryxell, the distinguished historian and Member of Parliament. Directly he arrived he went in to see Bengt, accompanied by Lieutenant and Fru Lagerlöf, Mamselle Lovisa, the old housekeeper, and all the servants. They quietly and reverently lined themselves along the walls of the servants’ room, expecting, of course, that the Dean would make a little speech in Bengt’s honour. At first all went as it should go. The Dean read some passages from the Scriptures, and Bengt listened--very still and solemn. Then the Dean said: “You, Bengt, have been one of those good and faithful servants of whom our Lord speaks.” “Ay,” says Bengt from his bed, “that’s what I’ve been.” “You have never considered your own welfare before that of your employer. You have always been mindful of the duties entrusted to you.” “Ay, ’tis all so true,” says Bengt. “Many thanks to you, Dean, for those words.” It looked as if these constant interruptions would prove annoying to the Dean, who was a great man, accustomed to the society of grand folk. His was such an impressive personality that one easily became embarrassed in his presence. He was always supreme and always had the last word. There had been no time for the Dean to prepare a speech, and the address he delivered at the church was hardly suitable for the servants’ hall. He cleared his throat once or twice, and began again. “Bengt, you have been a good and faithful servant.” “Indeed I have,” said Bengt. The blood mounted to the brow of the great and brilliant Dean Fryxell. “You must be silent, Bengt, when I am speaking,” he said. “Ay, ay,” the old man replied. “Sure, I’m not contradicting you, Dean. ’Tis all so true what you’re saying.” The Dean got redder and redder. Again he cleared his throat and made a fresh attempt. “You, Bengt, have been a good and faithful servant, but you have also had good masters.” The old man was so elated at this he simply could not keep still. “You’re right, dear Dean, you’re right! They’ve been grand men, all o’ them--Wennervik and the Paymaster of the Regiment and this here Eric Gustaf.” He reached over and put his hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder, then stroked him down the arm, his old face ashine with happiness. Once more the Dean lifted up his voice. “You must be silent, Bengt, when I’m speaking!” “Why, of course,” said the old man. “But ’tis so right and true every blessed word you’ve spoken, Dean.” Now the Dean had to smile. “You’re irrepressible, Bengt. You will not have to listen to any speech. Here is your medal. May you wear it with health and honour for many years to come.” So saying, the Dean went up to the bedside and laid the medal on the bosom of the old man’s Sunday shirt. Later, at dinner, the Dean seemed a bit abstracted. “This is the first time in my life I have ever lost myself,” he confessed, “but in this world one must have all sorts of experiences.” II