"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."