OSWALD. Oh, I know what I want to make. SIGURD. What, Oswald?--What? OSWALD. I want a raisin in mine. (_Pushing open the door._) Can I, Halla? (_Exeunt to kitchen._ OLGA _crosses to_ RUSTER.) OLGA. If you are cold, Ruster, why not stay here by the fire and copy your music? Is there much more to do? RUSTER. (_Seating himself and arranging pages_) Liljekrona says there is no hurry. When will he be home? OLGA. As soon as he has filled the sledge with boughs, for he knows we need him here on Christmas Eve. (_She goes to the window. Sleighbells are heard._) There they are, coming up the drive. We must have some place to put the branches. (_She spreads a cloth on the floor._ RUSTER _steals a drink from his flask. The door opens. Enter_ LILJEKRONA. _He is a tall, finely erect man, clad in a heavy fur coat that is covered with snow. As he takes off his cap, he discloses a mass of light hair brushed back from an unusually high forehead. His face is at once sensitive and strong. He carries a load of boughs._) Well, what an armful you have! LILJEKRONA. (_Gaily_) Tell the children I have brought home the whole forest for our Christmas. OLGA. Put down your forest over here. Was it very cold? LILJEKRONA. There has been a fine flurry all morning. (OLGA _helps him off with his coat_.) But the fire feels good! RUSTER. This is the warmest place in the house. LILJEKRONA. How is it going? (_Looking over_ RUSTER’S _shoulder_.) You haven’t forgotten how a page ought to look, have you, Ruster? RUSTER. No, I can copy, but I cannot play. I have almost forgotten the sound of my flute. Nobody wants a flute-player nowadays! They do not care for music any more in Varmland and they do not want to learn. LILJEKRONA. Yes, Varmland is not like Ekeby when we knew it. RUSTER. It’s a pity we ever left there, Liljekrona! We have never had such playing since--you with your violin and I with my flute. Old Torwaldson waving his angry stick! By Heaven, he called the souls out of us! LILJEKRONA. Yes, the violins sobbing--then the horns, the winds, the basses--each breaking over the other in thundering waves. RUSTER. Holy Mother!--that was living! LILJEKRONA. And from one patron off on the road to another, and along the way, what gay evenings in the tent and at the inn when a man was free from care! RUSTER. How you could play then! Shall I forget that night in Olaf’s garden? You made your fiddle sing as though your heart were in tune with its strings. But now, Christ’s blood! you never play like that. OLGA. He plays more beautifully now than he ever did at Ekeby. LILJEKRONA. No, there is not so much time for practice here. RUSTER. And the old spirit has gone out of you. LILJEKRONA. I sometimes think so myself. It is hard to settle down after a life of wandering. Something wild keeps crying in my soul, bidding me be off again.