The bird that only chirps and twitters can never sing like the organ-bird." Crying, she hid her face against my neck, murmuring sadly between her sobs: "Never--never!" How strange it seemed, in that moment of joy, such a passion of tears, such despondent words! For some minutes I preserved a sorrowful silence, realizing for the first time, so far as it was possible to realize such a thing, what my inability to understand her secret language meant to her--that finer language in which alone her swift thoughts and vivid emotions could be expressed.

Easily and well as she seemed able to declare herself in my tongue, I could well imagine that to her it would seem like the merest stammering.

As she had said to me once when I asked her to speak in Spanish, "That is not speaking." And so long as she could not commune with me in that better language, which reflected her mind, there would not be that perfect union of soul she so passionately desired.
By and by, as she grew calmer, I sought to say something that would be consoling to both of us.

"Sweetest Rima," I spoke, "it is so sad that I can never hope to talk with you in your way; but a greater love than this that is ours we could never feel, and love will make us happy, unutterably happy, in spite of that one sadness.

And perhaps, after a while, you will be able to say all you wish in my language, which is also yours, as you said some time ago.