One of my grievances, and that the sorest of all, was the loss of my
beloved fiddle. This, for all her goodwill, Ninette was powerless to allay.
'Dear Anton,' she said, 'do not mind about it. I earn enough for both with
my organ, and some day we shall save enough to buy thee a new fiddle. When
we are together, and have got food and charcoal, what does it matter about
an old fiddle? Come, eat thy supper, Anton, and I will light the fire.
Never mind, dear Anton.' And she laid her soft little cheek against mine
with a pleading look.
'Don't,' I cried, pushing her away, 'you can't understand, Ninette; you
can only grind an organ--just four tunes, always the same. But I loved my
fiddle, loved it! loved it!' I cried passionately. 'It could talk to me,
Ninette, and tell me beautiful, new things, always beautiful, and always
new. Oh, Ninette, I shall die if I cannot play!'
It was always the same cry, and Ninette, if she could not understand, and
was secretly a little jealous, was as distressed as I was; but what could
she do?
Eventually, I got my violin, and it was Ninette who gave it me. The manner
of its acquirement was in this wise.
Ninette would sometimes invest some of her savings in violets, which she
divided with me, and made into nosegays for us to sell in the streets at
night.
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