“‘Draw up your chair to yonder table, William, while I sit on the other side. Now look straight at me (‘I can’t do otherwise,’ he gravely said), and listen close while I the story tell which I have got from three old books--two of them from Spain were brought, one from France. I have dropped and left out this and that, and put in more, here interpolated, there proclaimed a truth I once did hear you say. Now let us get the plot all firmly fixed in our two hearts, and then you it is shall write; for you do toy with words--they are your playthings. You strive not, nor reach out, nor falter, search or look around, but straightway you do get the thought, words, gentle words come trooping to you like a thousand fairies, each in its own order, leading its mate full gently by the hand. For learned men may work and strive and sweat and never do they reach the smoothness you do bring even without a second thought. Careless, William, you are in manner. You know no rule, yet I might study a thousand years and could not thus express the feeling that within me burns; but hinted once by me to you, straightway you weave the beauteous thought into a chaplet gay, and then upon my brow you place it, and seriously you proclaim it mine, when ’tis not mine, nor thine, but _ours_.’ “Thus did speak this winsome girl after the story she had told, and thoughtful sat the man and not a word he seemed to hear as still she chatted on. When suddenly he aroused and said: “‘The pens, my lady! An eagle’s pinion, and this story you have told shall we give wing! But note you! three stories have you taken and woven into two instead of one. So shall it stand. Two stories shall we tell, the one within the other held.’[2] “And straightway were pens and paper brought and he did write--steadily and seemingly without thought of form or rounded sentences, but surely without stop--and as the pen went gliding o’er the parchment, and page on page were turned aside, the fair young girl did seize and greedily did read, with pen in hand to make an alteration, although but slight, and her cheeks did burn and now and then she sighed and raised her hands. But the young man, he looked not up, but with calm face and steady hand the work went on; and as he held the pen in his right hand, his left hand moved, as though unknown to him, across the narrow table, and gently did she hold it fast--and still the work went on. A few more nights--the play was done and to the judges sent. They read aloud. Some wondered, others sniffed the air, one said: ‘What rubbish is this sent to us? What folly! and written by a big peasant boor!--use it to light the fire. Here, servant, you, bring on the next so to quickly get this horrid taste out of our mouths.’