“Which shall I have, brother?” said the gypsy girl.
“Whichever you please.”
“No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say.”
“Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.”
“Yes, brother, yes,” said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. “Pretty brother, grey-haired brother—here, brother,” said she, “here is your cake, this other is mine.”
“Are you sure,” said I, taking the cake, “that this is the one I chose?”
“Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there’s no difference, however—shall I eat?”
“Yes, sister, eat.”
“See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother.”
“I am not hungry.”