"Why did she cry, my love?"
"Oh, Abel, can you understand--now--at last!" And putting her
lips close to my ear, she began to murmur soft, melodious sounds
that told me nothing. Then drawing back her head, she looked
again at me, her eyes glistening with tears, her lips half parted
with a smile, tender and wistful.
Ah, poor child! in spite of all that had been said, all that had
happened, she had returned to the old delusion that I must
understand her speech. I could only return her look, sorrowfully
and in silence.
Her face became clouded with disappointment, then she spoke again
with something of pleading in her tone. "Look, we are not now
apart, I hiding in the wood, you seeking, but together, saying
the same things. In your language--yours and now mine. But
before you came I knew nothing, nothing, for there was only
grandfather to talk to. A few words each day, the same words.
If yours is mine, mine must be yours. Oh, do you not know that
mine is better?"
"Yes, better; but alas! Rima, I can never hope to understand
your sweet speech, much less to speak it. The bird that only
chirps and twitters can never sing like the organ-bird.
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