The others were a bit disconcerted, naturally, but they took up the march for the third time. And now the Major sang, _Sons of a race that bled._ He carried the air in a deep, rich bass that filled the whole house. The human voice flowed on like a mighty tide, bearing along with it the tinny old piano, the shrill clarinet, the violin, scraped in old fiddler-fashion, the three-stringed guitar, the Sergeant’s triangle and the Lieutenant’s capricious nightingale. Their hearts warmed, for the loss of Finland still rankled in their breasts; and now they seemed to be marching with the brave Björneborg lads to take back their country from the Russians. When the march was finished the Lieutenant motioned to his wife, who struck up _Worthy Fathers, Noble Shadows_, from the opera of “Gustaf Vasa,” which was the Major’s great show piece. He rendered the song with power and feeling, and the instruments seemed almost to sing with him. Over on the straight-backed sofa, quiet as mice, sat all the children--Daniel, Johan, Anna, Selma, and Gerda--listening. What could they do but keep still, when the grown-ups played and carried on like youngsters? When the Major sang Worthy Fathers, Noble Shadows, they thought he sang of himself and the others who were performing in the living room. To the children they were all like ghosts of a vanished something--shadows of a great and glorious past of which they could but catch the faint gleams of an afterglow. THE NEW MÅRBACKA I THE SEVENTEEN CATS THERE was a cow-girl at Mårbacka named Britta Lambert, who had been on the place from the time of the Paymaster of the Regiment. She was little and ugly, with a face like old parchment, and she had only one eye. In the company of humans she was crabbed and surly, but she loved animals. If a cow was expected to calve in the night, she would make up a bed in the barn and sleep there. Every day she would heat water in the brew house and carry great bucketfuls down to the barn, so that the cows might have warm mash. When the hay ran low in the cow-house, along in April, and the cows had to chew on rye-straw, she was not above sneaking over to the stable and stealing hay from the horses. The barn in which she ruled was very old and so dark you could scarcely see your hand before you; the passageways were narrow, the floor was worn full of holes, and the cows stood in cramped little stalls, which Britta did not think to keep clean. Nevertheless, steady contentment reigned in the old cow-house. There was no fear of a cow’s overfeeding, or getting anything sharp in her fodder, or that aught would go wrong with the calving. There were lots of calves and plenty of milk. The mistress at Mårbacka never had any anxiety concerning the cow-house.