"When we grow old," says the kind old gentleman.
"No," says the boy. "Einar has a brother, at home, in the courtyard, and he is dead. And he was only a little boy."
"Then Einar's brother was so good and learnt such a lot that he was already fit to go to Heaven," says the old gentleman.
"Mind you don't become too good," I say and laugh and tap my little boy in the stomach.
And my little boy laughs too and goes back to his window, where new chimneys rise over Jean's grave.
But I take the old gentleman by the shoulders and forbid him most strictly to talk to my little boy again. I give up trying to make him understand me. I just shake him. He eyes the communication-cord and, when we reach the station, hurries away.
I go with my little boy, holding his hand, through the streets full of live people. In the evening, I sit on the edge of his bed and talk with him about that incomprehensible thing: Jean, who is dead; Jean, who was so much alive, so strong, so big. . . .
VI
Our courtyard is full of children and my little boy has picked a bosom-friend out of the band: his name is Einar and he can be as good as another.
My little boy admires him and Einar allows himself to be admired, so that the friendship is established on the only proper basis.