The sun began the downward circle; the shadows crept eastward and imperceptibly grew longer; a gray tone settled under the stones at his feet.  Sometimes he sang, sometimes he stood dreaming.  His fingers were growing sore and sticky and there was a twinge in his back as he shouldered his eighth basket and scrambled down to the man who weighed the pick.  He was beginning his ninth when he saw Gretchen coming along the purple aisle.  She waved a hand in welcome, and he sheathed his knife.  No more work this day for him.  He waited.

“What a beautiful day!” said Gretchen, with a happy laugh.

“Aye, what a day for love!”

“And work!”

“Kiss me!”

“When you fill that basket.”

“Not before?”

“Not even a little one,” mischief in her glance.  Out came the knife and the vintner plied himself furiously.  Gretchen had a knife of her own, and she joined him.  They laughed gaily.  Snip, snip; bunch by bunch the contents of the basket grew.

“There!” he said at last.  “That’s what I call work; but it is worth it.  Now!”

Gretchen saw that it would be futile to hold him off longer; what she would not give he would of a surety take.  So she put her hands behind her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin.  He kissed not only the lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.

“Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel.”

“What are angels like?”

“An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine.”

“Then there are no men angels?”

“Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other.”

“Then I do not want to be an angel.  I had rather be what I am.  Besides, angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not have; they have no sweethearts.”  She caught him roughly by the arms.  “Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die!  It seems as though I 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.