her portrait was lessening each day; from active to passive.  And yet, was it because Gretchen was Phyllis in the ideal?  Was I falling in love with Gretchen because she was Gretchen, or was my love for Phyllis simply renewing itself in Gretchen?  Was that the reason why the portrait of Phyllis grew less holding and interesting to me?  It was a complex situation; one I frowned over when alone.  It was becoming plainer to me every hour that I had a mystery all of my own to solve.  And Gretchen was the only one to solve it.

I shall never forget that night under the chestnuts, on the bank of the wide white river.  The leaves were gossiping among themselves; they had so much to talk about; and then, they knew so much!  Had not they and their ancestors filtered the same moonbeams, century on century?  Had not their ancestors heard the tramp of the armies, the clash of the sabre, the roar of the artillery?  Had not the hand of autumn and the hand of death marked them with the crimson sign?  Ah, the leaves!  It is well to press them in books when they themselves have such fine stories to tell.

“Gretchen,” said I, echoing my thoughts, “had I been born a hundred years ago I must have been a soldier.  Napoleon was a great warrior.”

“So was Bluecher, since it was he who helped overcome the little Corsican.”

The Germans will never forgive Napoleon.

“But war is a terrible thing,” went on Gretchen.

“Yes, but it is a great educator; it teaches the vanquished how little they know.”

“War is the offspring of pride; that is what makes it so abhorred.”

“It is also the offspring of oppression; that is what makes it so great.”

“Yes; when the people take up arms it is well.  War is the torch of liberty in the hands of the people.  Oh, I envy the people, who are so strong, yet know it not.  If I were a man I would teach the people that a king has no divine right, save when it is conferred upon him by them.”

“Gretchen, I’m afraid that you’re a bit of a Socialist.”

“And who is not who has any love for humanity?”

“A beautiful woman who is a Socialist, Gretchen, is a menace to the King.  Sometimes he fears her.  At large, she is dangerous.  He seeks her, and if he finds her, he takes away her liberty.”  All this was said with a definite purpose.  It was to let Gretchen know that I knew her secret.  “Gretchen, you are an embryo Socialist; a chrysalis, as it were.”

“No, Herr,” sadly; “I am a butterfly whose wings have been clipped.”

I had not expected this admission,

“Never mind,” said I.  “Gretchen, I do not want you to call me Herr; call me Jack.”

“Jack!” she said.  It became an uncommon name now.

“Whatever your true name may be, I shall never call you anything but Gretchen.”

“Ah, Jack!” She laughed, and the lurking echoes clasped the music of that laughter in their wanton arms and hurried it across the river.