So I sat there and watched her moving quietly about in that immaculate kitchen.

After a time I walked over to where she stood by the table and put my arm around her quickly.
She half turned her head, in her quick, businesslike way.

I noted how firm and clean and sweet her face was.
"Harriet," I said, "you grow younger every year." No response.
"Harriet," I said, "I haven't seen a single person anywhere on my journey that I like as much as I do you." The quick blood came up.
"There--there--David!" she said.
So I stepped away.
"And as for rhubarb pie, Harriet--" When I first came to my farm years ago there were mornings when I woke up with the strong impression that I had just been hearing the most exquisite sounds of music.

I don't know whether this is at all a common experience, but in those days (and farther back in my early boyhood) I had it frequently.

It did not seem exactly like music either, but was rather a sense of harmony, so wonderful, so pervasive that it cannot be described.