And oh, Karl--the heart itself has opened a little
now, and you can get a suggestion, just a very indefinite suggestion--but
then all inner things are indefinite--that inside the heart of the cloud
is its soul, and you are permitted one fleeting glimpse to tell you that
the soul of the cloud is such a blue as never was dreamed of on land or
on sea."
"I can see that cloud," he said,--"and the bird looking up at it, and the
tree whose eldest child was so perverse and so--individual."
"And, Karl," she went on, in joyous eagerness, "can't you see how the
earth heaved a sigh right here a couple of hundred centuries ago--now
_don't_ tell me the park commissioners made them!--and that when it
settled back from its sigh it never was quite the same again? It was
a sigh of content--for the little slopes are so gentle. Gentle little
hills are sighs of content, and bigger ones are determinations, and
mountains--what are mountains, Karl?"
"Mountains are revolutionary instincts," he said, smiling at her
fancifulness--Ernestine was always fanciful when she was happy.
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