"There is always a warm corner in the fireplace ready for me," continued the grandfather. "There I sit all through the winter and listen to the words of the kind monks. Now and again I see someone whom they have saved from a miserable death, buckling on his knapsack with fresh courage. I often hear about how the world is going on down below, and I am always happy to have escaped it all and to be up here."
"Yes, I can well believe that," said Vinzi, appreciatively.
"How would it be to play some tunes now?" asked the grandfather after a pause.
Pulling out his pipe, Vinzi began a melody that pleased the old man, so he asked to hear it over again. When he had repeated it, the grandfather said, "That was very beautiful. Was it a hymn?"
"Yes, it was," said Vinzi.
"How do you come to know it? Young boys do not generally like to play hymns. Where did you find it?"
"I did not find it. I only imitate what I hear sung. Mother sings such hymns at home every evening," Vinzi informed him.
"Do you know more like it?" the aged man asked.
"Yes, yes; a lot of them," Vinzi assured him.
"I wonder if you can play a hymn I heard once, but never again. I would so love to hear it again. But all I can tell is how each stanza ends; perhaps you will know what it is by that."