’that I have plenty of paper at home.  However, I can make use of everything.’  Saying this, she accepted my present with a slight nod and put it into her basket.  ‘Perhaps you’ll take some cake?’ she asked, sorting her wares, ‘although the best have been sold.’  I declined, but told her that I had another wish.  ‘And what may that be?’ she asked, putting her arm through the handle of her basket, drawing herself up to her full height, and flashing her eyes angrily at me.  I lost no time telling her that I was a lover of music, although only a recent convert, and that I had heard her singing such beautiful songs, especially one.  ‘You—­heard me—­singing?’ she flared up.  ‘Where?’ I then told her that I lived near her, and that I had been listening to her while she was at work in the courtyard; that one of her songs had pleased me particularly, and that I had tried to play it after her on my violin.  ‘Can you be the man,’ she exclaimed, ‘who scrapes so on the fiddle?’ As I mentioned before, I was only a beginner at that time and not until later, by dint of much hard work, did I acquire the necessary dexterity;” the old man interrupted himself, while with the fingers of his left hand he made movements in the air, as though he were playing the violin.  “I blushed violently,” he continued the narrative, “and I could see by the expression of her face that she repented her harsh words.  ‘My dear young woman,’ I said, ’the scraping arises from the fact that I do not possess the music of the song, and for this reason I should like to ask you most respectfully for a copy of it.’  ’For a copy?’ she exclaimed.  ’The song is printed and is sold at every street-corner.’  ‘The song?’ I replied.  ’You probably mean only the words!’ ‘Why, yes; the words, the song.’  ’But the melody to which it is sung—­’ ‘Are such things written down?’ she asked.  ‘Surely,’ was my reply, ‘that is the most important part.’  ’And how did you learn it, my dear young woman?’ ’I heard some one singing it, and then I sang it after her.’  I was astonished at this natural gift.  And I may add in passing that uneducated people often possess the greatest natural talent.  But, after all, this is not the proper thing, not real art.  I was again plunged into despair.  ‘But which song do you want?’ she asked.  ‘I know so many.’  ‘All without the notes?’ ’Why, of course.  Now which was it?’ ‘It is so very beautiful,’ I explained.  ’Right at the beginning the melody rises, then it becomes fervent, and finally it ends very softly.  You sing it more frequently than the others.’  ’Oh, I suppose it’s this one,’ she said, setting down her basket, and placing her foot on the stool.  Then, keeping time by nodding her head, she sang the song in a very low, yet clear voice, so beautifully and so charmingly that, before she had quite finished, I tried to grasp her hand, which was hanging at her side.  ‘What do you mean!’ she cried, drawing back her arm, for she probably thought I intended to take her hand immodestly.  I wanted to kiss it, although she was only a poor girl.—­Well, after all, I too am poor now!