f man, knew that falsehood could not lurk in such
music. This handsome boy loved her. Buffeted as she had been, she could
separate the false from the true. Come never so deep a sorrow, there
would always be this--he loved her. Her bosom swelled, her heart
throbbed, and she breathed in ecstasy the sweet chill air that rushed
through the broken street.

"After the vintage," she said, giving his arm a pressure. For this
handsome fellow was to be her husband when the vines were pruned and
freshened against the coming winter.

"Aye, after the vintage," he echoed; but there was tragedy in his heart
as deep and profound as his love.

"My grandmother--I call her that for I haven't any grandmother--is old
and seldom leaves the house. I promised that after work to-night I'd
bring my man home and let her see how handsome he is. She is always
saying that we need a man about; and yet, I can do a man's work as well
as the next one. I love you, too, Leo!" She pulled his hand to her lips
and quickly kissed it, frightened but unashamed.

"Gretchen, Gretchen!"

She stopped. "What is it?" keenly. "There was pain in your voice."

"The thought of how I love you hurts me. There is nothing else, nothing,
neither riches nor crowns, nothing but you, Gretchen. How long ago was
it I met you first?"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks? Is it not years? Have I not always known and loved you?"

"And I! What an empty heart and head were mine till that wonderful day!
You were tired and dusty and footsore; you had walked some twenty odd
miles; yet you helped me with the geese. There were almost tears in your
eyes, but I knew that your heart was a man's when you smiled at me."
She stopped again and turned him round to her. "And you love me like
this?"

"Whatever betide, _Lieberherz_, whatever befall." And he embraced her
with a fierce tenderness, and so strong was he in the moment that
Gretchen gave a cry. He kissed her, not on the lips, but on the fine
white forehead, reverently.

They proceeded, Gretchen subdued and the vintner silent, until they came
to the end of their journey at number forty in the Krumerweg. It was a
house of hanging gables, almost as old as the town itself, solid and
grim and taciturn. There are some houses which talk like gossips, noisy,
obtrusive and provocative. Number forty was like an old warrior, gone to
his chair by the fireside, who listens to the small-talk of his
neighbors saturninely. What was it all about? Had he