I do so.  Even at this early stage I could see that Gretchen had the faculty of making persons forget what they were seeking, and by the mere sound of her voice.  And it was I who wound the clock.

“Gretchen,” said I, “time lags.  Make a servant out of me this morning.”

“Herr does the barmaid too much honor,” with lowered eyes.

“I, am in the habit of doing anything I please.”

“Ah, Herr is one of those millionaires I have read about!”

“Yes, I am very rich.”  I laughed, but Gretchen did not see the point.

“Come, then, with me, and you shall weed the knoblauch patch.”

She was laughing at me, but I was not to be abashed.

“To the patch be it, then!” I cried.  “An onion would smell as sweet under any other name.”

So Gretchen and I went into the onion patch, and I weeded and hoed and hoed and weeded till my back ached and my hands were the color of the soil.  Nothing was done satisfactorily to Gretchen.  It was, “There, you have ruined the row back of you!” or “Pull the weeds more gently!” and sometimes, “Ach! could your friends see you now!” I suppose that I did not make a pretty picture.  The perspiration would run down my face.  I would forget the condition of my hands and push back my hair, which fell like a mop over my brow, whereat she would laugh.  Once I took her hand and helped her to jump over a row.  I was surprised at the strength of her grasp.

“What does Herr do for a living, he works so badly as a gardener?”

“I am a journalist,” I answered, leaning on my hoe and breathing heavily.

“Ach! one of those men who tell such dreadful stories about kings and princes?  Who cause men to go to war with each other?  Who rouse the ignorant to deeds of violence?  One of those men who are more powerful than a king, because they can undo him?” She drew away from me.

“Hold on!” I cried, dropping the hoe; “what do you know about it?”

“Enough,” sadly.  “I read the papers.  I always look with fear upon one of those men who can do so much good, and yet who would do so much evil.”

I had never looked at it in that light before.

“It seems to me, Gretchen,” I said quietly, “that you are about as much a barmaid as I am a weeder of knoblauches.”

The color of excitement fled from Gretchen’s cheeks, her eyes grew troubled and she looked away.

“Gretchen has a secret,” said I.  “It is nothing to me what Gretchen’s secret is; I shall respect it, and continue to think of her only as a barmaid with—­with a superior education.”  I shouldered the hoe.  “Come, let us go back; I’m thirsty.”

“Thank you, Herr,” was the soft reply.  Then Gretchen became as dumb, and our return to the inn was made in silence.  Once there, however, she recovered.  “I am sorry to have put you at such a disadvantage,” glancing at my clothes, which were covered with brown earth.