"I often think there's something that sings when all is still," she said, in a voice so soft and low that he felt as if he heard it now for the first time.
"It is the good within our own souls," he said.
She looked at him as if she thought that answer meant too much; and they both stood silent a few moments. Then she asked, while she wrote with her finger on the window-pane, "Have you made any songs lately?"
He blushed; but she did not see it, and so she asked once more, "How do you manage to make songs?"
"Should you like to know?"
"Well, yes;—I should."
"I store up the thoughts that other people let slip."
She was silent for a long while; perhaps thinking she might have had some thoughts fit for songs, but had let them slip.
"How strange it is," she said, at last, as though to herself, and beginning to write again on the window-pane.
"I made a song the first time I had seen you."