"Am I a thief, a scoundrelly thief,
because I have that right common to all men, to love one woman? Some day
I shall suffer for this; some day my heart shall ache; so be it!"
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.
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