It was as good as settled that she would abandon the idea.  But she thought, very naturally, it would have been agreeable to write something beautiful about Sweden, and it was hard for her to relinquish her work.  Finally, it occurred to her that maybe it was because she lived in a city, with only gray streets and house walls around her, that she could make no headway with the writing.  Perhaps if she were to go into the country, where she could see woods and fields, that it might go better.

She was from Vermland, and it was perfectly clear to her that she wished to begin the book with that province.  First of all she would write about the place where she had grown up.  It was a little homestead, far removed from the great world, where many old-time habits and customs were retained.  She thought that it would be entertaining for children to hear of the manifold duties which had succeeded one another the year around.  She wanted to tell them how they celebrated Christmas and New Year and Easter and Midsummer Day in her home; what kind of house furnishings they had; what the kitchen and larder were like, and how the cow shed, stable, lodge, and bath house had looked.  But when she was to write about it the pen would not move.  Why this was she could not in the least understand; nevertheless it was so.

True, she remembered it all just as distinctly as if she were still living in the midst of it.  She argued with herself that since she was going into the country anyway, perhaps she ought to make a little trip to the old homestead that she might see it again before writing about it.  She had not been there in many years and did not think it half bad to have a reason for the journey.  In fact she had always longed to be there, no matter in what part of the world she happened to be.  She had seen many places that were more pretentious and prettier.  But nowhere could she find such comfort and protection as in the home of her childhood.

It was not such an easy matter for her to go home as one might think, for the estate had been sold to people she did not know.  She felt, to be sure, that they would receive her well, but she did not care to go to the old place to sit and talk with strangers, for she wanted to recall how it had been in times gone by.  That was why she planned it so as to arrive there late in the evening, when the day’s work was done and the people were indoors.

She had never imagined that it would be so wonderful to come home!  As she sat in the cart and drove toward the old homestead she fancied that she was growing younger and younger every minute, and that soon she would no longer be an oldish person with hair that was turning gray, but a little girl in short skirts with a long flaxen braid.  As she recognized each farm along the road, she could not picture anything else than that everything at home would be as in bygone days.  Her father and mother and brothers and sisters would be standing on the porch to welcome her; the old housekeeper would run to the kitchen window to see who was coming, and Nero and Freja and another dog or two would come bounding and jumping up on her.