has no parents; only an uncle, who doesn't count. We shall live with
grandmother and pay her rent."

"And you are wearing a new dress," admiringly.

Gretchen preened herself. Hans dropped the lid of his stein and pushed
it away. His heart always warmed at the sight of this goose-girl. So she
had a dowry and was going to be married? He felt of his wallet, and a
kindly thought came into being. He counted down the small change for the
beer, slid back his chair, and sauntered to the bar. Gretchen recognized
him, and the recognition brought a smile to her face.

"Good day to you, Herr," was her greeting.

"When is the wedding?"

Gretchen blushed.

"I should like to come to it."

"You will be welcome, Herr."

"And may I bring along a little present?"

"If it so please you. I must be going," she added to Fraeu Bauer.

"May I walk along with you?" asked Hans.

"If you wish," diffidently.

So Grumbach walked with her to the Krumerweg, and he asked her many
questions, and some of her answers surprised him.

"Never knew father or mother?"

"No, Herr. I am only a foundling who fell into kind hands. This is where
I live."

"And if I should ask to come in?"

"But I shall be too busy to talk. This is bread-day," evasively.

"I promise to sit very quiet in a chair."

Her laughter rippled; she was always close to that expression. "You are
a funny man. Come in, then; but mind, you will be dusty with flour when
you leave."

"I will undertake that risk," he replied, with a seriousness not in tune
with the comedy of the situation.

Into the kitchen she led him. She was moved with curiosity. Why should
any man wish to see a woman knead bread?

"Sit there, Herr." And she pointed to a stool at the left of the table.
The sunlight came in through the window, and an aureola appeared above
her beautiful head. "Have you never seen a woman knead flour?"

"Not for many years," said Hans, thinking of his mother.

Gretchen deliberately rolled up her sleeves and began work.

There are three things which human growth never changes: the lines in
the hand, the shape of the ear, and scars. The head grows, and the
general features enlarge to their predestined mold, but these three
things remain. Upon Gretchen's left arm, otherwise perfection, there was
a white scar, rough and uneven, more like an ancient burn than anything
else. Grumbach's eyes rested upon the scar and became fixed.

"Where did you get that?" he asked. He spok