But Augusta had no desire for this. She could not wish that the mother of the Gracchi should live after her sons were killed. Augusta was always so frightened of death, there was something ugly about it. She sat there with her head on her arm, and said this quietly, as though to herself. She looked very sweet. Or was she tired? he asked. No, she was not tired, but she wished so much to be quiet. Well, they could easily sit a little longer. She altered her position, and they went on talking. Supposing the mother of the Gracchi met her sons in heaven? But would the Gracchi and she go to heaven? They did not believe in Jesus. After some discussion the children agreed that now they could be taught about Jesus, and therefore naturally they had gone to heaven. But after that, what would they do there? Augusta shuddered, Eternity was so frightful. She hid her face, and when she lifted it again, she had been crying. He sat a long time and looked at her. "Listen, Augusta," he said, "neither of us will die till we have grown dreadfully old, so old that we cannot even walk. It can't be the same then, can it?" Augusta smiled. "That time you gave me the everlastings, you said I was to think of you when you were dead, you know." "Yes, I was so frightfully miserable that day, and then I had got that picture of King Edward's sons. Augusta!" "Well?" "At sea, in the autumn gales--they are often very dangerous, the autumn gales, you know--I shall have myself lashed fast, and I will write to you exactly what I think. And then you must write down what you think when you read it." "That might prove dangerous," laughed Augusta. She was older. He felt embarrassed, so there was silence. But all the time he looked at her plump figure, good-natured face, her heavy braids, and long eyelashes. She sat looking down--yes, she had grown now, she had quite a figure. And those wrists, those characteristic firm hands. He sat and gazed at her for a long time, and then said, "Augusta." "Well?" "Karl will write to me every day. Mother has promised him the money. Could not you put a few lines in too--eh!" "Every day, Tomas! That would be very often." "But all the same...." "Interesting things won't happen to me every day, you see, Tomas; it would be only stupid." She looked at him simply. "But," he answered, "people who care for each other always do write." He was crimson and turned away. She would be sure to laugh. But she did not laugh. In a few minutes he heard her say (he did not turn round), "Yes, yes, then I will," and she devoted herself to gathering the apples. At the same time Fru Rendalen and the doctor were standing by the parlour window.