--I wish you could once hear my sister's voice,--said the
schoolmistress.
If it is like yours, it must be a pleasant one,--said I.
I never thought mine was anything,--said the schoolmistress.
How should you know?--said I.--People never hear their own voices,
--any more than they see their own faces. There is not even a
looking-glass for the voice. Of course, there is something audible
to us when we speak; but that something is not our own voice as it
is known to all our acquaintances. I think, if an image spoke to
us in our own tones, we should not know them in the least.--How
pleasant it would be, if in another state of being we could have
shapes like our former selves for playthings,--we standing outside
or inside of them, as we liked, and they being to us just what we
used to be to others!
--I wonder if there will be nothing like what we call "play," after
our earthly toys are broken,--said the schoolmistress.
Hush,--said I,--what will the divinity-student say?
[I thought she was hit, that time;--but the shot must have gone
over her, or on one side of her; she did not flinch.]
Oh,--said the schoolmistress,--he must look out for my sister's
heresies; I am afraid he will be too busy with them to take care of
mine.
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