If so, you will no more
think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which
two human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering
rain-streams, before they mingle into one--you will no more think these
things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming
spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something
in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible
budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and
touches are part of the soul's language; and the finest language,
I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as "light,"
"sound," "stars," "music"--words really not worth looking at, or
hearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust." It is only
that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and
beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too,
and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and
sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, "light" and
"music," stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching
your present with your most precious past.
Chapter LI
Sunday Morning
LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough
to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made up
her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must
part.
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