re. A mad fling, a brimming cup,
one short merry month--and then, the reckoning! How I hate the thought!"

He sobered; the laughter went out of his eyes and face. Changeful
twenty, where so many paths reach out into the great world, paths
straight and narrow, of devious turnings which end at precipices, of
blind alleys which lead nowhere and close in behind!

"I love her, I love her!" His face grew bright again, and the wooing
blood ran tingling in his veins. "Am I a thief, a scoundrelly thief,
because I have that right common to all men, to love one woman? Some day
I shall suffer for this; some day my heart shall ache; so be it!"

The sun began the downward circle; the shadows crept eastward and
imperceptibly grew longer; a gray tone settled under the stones at his
feet. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he stood dreaming. His fingers were
growing sore and sticky and there was a twinge in his back as he
shouldered his eighth basket and scrambled down to the man who weighed
the pick. He was beginning his ninth when he saw Gretchen coming along
the purple aisle. She waved a hand in welcome, and he sheathed his
knife. No more work this day for him. He waited.

"What a beautiful day!" said Gretchen, with a happy laugh.

"Aye, what a day for love!"

"And work!"

"Kiss me!"

"When you fill that basket."

"Not before?"

"Not even a little one," mischief in her glance. Out came the knife and
the vintner plied himself furiously. Gretchen had a knife of her own,
and she joined him. They laughed gaily. Snip, snip; bunch by bunch the
contents of the basket grew.

"There!" he said at last. "That's what I call work; but it is worth it.
Now!"

Gretchen saw that it would be futile to hold him off longer; what she
would not give he would of a surety take. So she put her hands behind
her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin. He kissed not only the
lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.

"Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel."

"What are angels like?"

"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."

"Then there are no men angels?"

"Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other."

"Then I do not want to be an angel. I had rather be what I am. Besides,
angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not
have; they have no sweethearts." She caught him roughly by the arms.
"Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die! It seems as though
I