“Why, surely,” said Anne, “one wants one’s friends to be congenial, I should think.”
“So we do; and there is nothing in the world so congenial as differences. To be sure, the differences must be harmonious. In music, now, for instance, one doesn’t want a repetition of the same notes, but differing notes that chord. Nay, even discords are indispensable to complete harmony. Now, Nina has just that difference from me which chords with me; and all our little quarrels—for we have had a good many, and I dare say shall have more—are only a sort of chromatic passages,—discords of the seventh, leading into harmony. My life is inward, theorizing, self-absorbed. I am hypochondriac, often morbid. The vivacity and acuteness of her outer life makes her just what I need. She wakens, she rouses, and keeps me in play; and her quick instincts are often more than a match for my reason.”
Proof of heaven.
“How do you know there is any heaven, anyhow?”
“Know it?” said Milly, her eyes kindling, and striking her staff on the ground, “Know it? I know it by de hankering arter it I got in here;” giving her broad chest a blow which made it resound like a barrel. “De Lord knowed what he was ’bout when he made us. When he made babies rootin’ ’round, wid der poor little mouths open, he made milk, and de mammies for ’em too. Chile, we’s nothing but great babies, dat ain’t got our eyes open,—rootin’ ’round an’ ’round; but de Father ’ll feed us yet—He will so.”
Power of song.
As oil will find its way into crevices where water cannot penetrate, so song will find its way where speech can no longer enter.