"Why, with my soul, I hope," says the Brother-man, simple.
Miss Clementina nodded a little, and I saw her face all Summer-soft as she answered him.
"Then," she said, "almost nobody will tell you so, but—there's only one way."
"I know it," says he, gentle.
"I know it," says I, solemn.
We three stood looking at each other from close on the same star, knowing all over us that if you decide a thing with your head you'll probably shift a burden off; if you decide with your heart you'll probably give, give, give, like Madame Proudfit does, to pay somebody else liberal to take the burden; but if you decide it with your soul, you give your own self to whatever is going on. And you know that's the way that is the way.
All of a sudden, as if words that were not being said had got loose and were saying themselves anyway, the music—that had been tip-tapping along all the while since we came—started in, sudden and beautiful, with the Piano Lady and the Violin Man playing up there in the landing room. I don't know whether it was a lullaby—though I shouldn't be surprised if it was, because I think sometimes in this world things happen just like they were being stage-managed by somebody that knows. But anyway—oh, it had a lullaby sound, a kind-of rocking, tender, just-you-and-me meaning; that ain't so very far from the you-and-me-and-all-of-us meaning when they're both said right and deep down.
I looked up at Miss Clementina and the Brother-man—as you do look up when some nice little thing has happened that you think whoever you're with will understand. But they didn't look back at me. They looked over to each other. They looked over to each other, swift at the first, but lasting long, and with the faces of both of them softening to Summer. And the music went heavenly-ing on, into the room, and into living, and into everything, and it was as if the whole minute was turned into its own spirit and then was said out in a sound.
Miss Clementina and the Brother-man looked away and down at the little chap that Miss Clementina was holding his hand. It was as if there was a pulse in the room—the Great Pulse that we all beat to, and that now and then we hear. But those two didn't see me at all; and all of a sudden I understood, how there was still another star that I didn't know anything about, and that they two were standing there together, they two and the little chap—but not me. Oh, it was wonderful—starting the way great things start, still and quiet like stars coming out. So still that they didn't either of them know it. And I felt as if everything was some better and some holier than I had ever known.
Then Madame Proudfit, she leans out from her star, gracious and benign, and certain sure that her star was the only one that had eternal truth inside it; and she spoke with a manner of waving her hand good natured to all the other little stars, including ours: