had a hundred hearts and that they had all melted into one for love of
you. Do men love as women love? Is it everything and all things, or
only an incident? I would give up my soul to you if you asked for it."

"I ask only for your love, Gretchen; only that." And he pressed her
hands. "All men are rogues, more or less. There are so many currents and
eddies entering into a man's life. It is made up of a thousand variant
interests. No, man's love is never like a woman's. But remember this,
Gretchen, I loved you the best I knew how, as a man loves but once,
honorably as it was possible, purely and dearly."

The shade of trouble crossed her face. "Why are you always talking like
that? Do I not know that you love me? Have I not my dowry, and are we
not to be married after the vintage?"

"But your singing?"

"Singing? Why, my voice belongs to you; for your sake I wish to be
great, for no other reason."

He ripped a bunch of grapes from the vine, a thing no careful vintner
should do, and held it toward her.

"Have you ever heard of the kissing cherries?" he asked.

She shook her head. He explained.

"This bunch will do very well."

He took one grape at the bottom in his teeth. Gingerly Gretchen did the
same. Their lips met in a smothered laughter. Then they tried it again.

And this Watteau picture met the gaze of two persons on the terrace
below. The empurpling face of one threatened an explosion, but the
smiling face of the other restrained this vocal thunder. The old head
vintner kicked a stone savagely, and at this rattling noise Gretchen and
her lover turned. They beheld the steward, and peering over his shoulder
the amused countenance of the Princess Hildegarde.

"You--" began the steward, no longer able to contain himself.

"Patience, Hoffman!" warned her highness. Then she laughed blithely. It
was such a charming picture, and never had she seen a handsomer pair of
bucolic lovers. A sudden pang drove the merriment from her face. Ah, but
she envied Gretchen! For the peasant there was freedom, there was the
chosen mate; but for the princess--

"Your hat, scoundrel!" cried Hoffman.

The vintner snatched off his hat apologetically and swung it round on
the tips of his fingers.

"Is this the way you work?"

"I have picked nine baskets."

"You should have picked twelve."

It interested her highness to note that this handsome young fellow was
not afraid of the head vintner. So this was Gretchen's lover?