“It is honest work, and that is good.”

“I meant nothing wrong, Kindchen.  But you would find it easier in a milliner’s shop, as a lady’s maid, something of that order.”

“With these?”—­holding out her hands.

“It would not take long to whiten them.  Do you live alone?”

“No.  I live with my foster-mother, who is very old.  I call her grandmother.  She took me in when I was a foundling; now I am taking care of her.  She has always been good to me.  And what might your name be?”

“Ludwig.”

“Ludwig what?”—­inquisitive in her turn.

“Oh, the other does not matter.  I am a mountaineer from Jugendheit.”

“Jugendheit?” She paused to look at him more closely.  “We are not friendly with your country.”

“More’s the pity.  It is a grave blunder on the part of the grand duke.  There is a mote in his eye.”

“Wasn’t it all about the grand duke’s daughter?”

“Yes.  But she has been found.  Yet the duke is as bitter as of old.  He is wrong, he was always wrong.”  The old man spoke with feeling.  “What is this new-found princess like?”

“She is beautiful and kind.”

“So?”

The geese were behaving, and only occasionally was she obliged to use her stick.  And as her companion asked no more questions, she devoted her attention to the flock, proud of their broad backs and full breasts.

On his part, he observed her critically, for he was more than curious now, he was interested.  She was not tall, but her lithe slenderness gave her the appearance of tallness.  Her hands, rough-nailed and sunburnt, were small and shapely; the bare foot in the wooden shoe might have worn without trouble Cinderella’s magic slipper.  Her clothes, coarse and homespun, were clean and variously mended.  Her hair, in a thick braid, was the tone of the heart of a chestnut-bur, and her eyes were of that mystifying hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes gray, according to whether the sky was clear or overcast.  And there was something above and beyond all these things, a modesty, a gentleness and a purity; none of the bold, rollicking, knowing manner so common in handsome peasant girls.  He contemplated her through half-closed eyes and gave her in fancy the tariffing furbelows of a woman of fashion; she would have been beautiful.

“How old are you, Gretchen?”

“I do not know,” she answered, “perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty.”

Again they went forward in silence.  By the time they reached the gates the sun was no longer visible on the horizon, but it had gone down ruddy and uncrowned by any cloud, giving promise of a fair day on the morrow.  The afterglow on the mountains across the valley was now in its prime glory; and once the two wayfarers paused and commented upon it.  Once more the mountaineer was agreeably surprised; the average peasant is impervious to atmospheric splendor, beauty carries no message.