Listen, Rima, you are like all beautiful things in the wood--flower, and bird, and butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, and little silky-haired monkey high up in the trees.

When I look at you I see them all--all and more, a thousand times, for I see Rima herself.
And when I listen to Rima's voice, talking in a language I cannot understand, I hear the wind whispering in the leaves, the gurgling running water, the bee among the flowers, the organ-bird singing far, far away in the shadows of the trees.

I hear them all, and more, for I hear Rima.

Do you understand me now?
Is it I speaking to you--have I answered you--have I come to you ?" She glanced at me again, her lips trembling, her eyes now clouded with some secret trouble.

"Yes," she replied in a whisper, and then: "No, it is not you," and after a moment, doubtfully: "Is it you ?" But she did not wait to be answered: in a moment she was gone round the more; nor would she return again for all my calling..