The old fellow elevated both eyebrows and shoulders--a deprecating movement. "They say that of every inn; it has become a trade." If I had known the old man I might have said that he was sarcastic. "Then there is no truth in it?" disappointedly. "Oh, I do not say there is no truth in the statement; if Herr will pardon me, it is something I do not like to talk about." "Ah, then there is a mystery?" I cried, with lively interest, pushing back my chair. But the innkeeper shook his head determinedly. "Very well," I laughed; "I shall ask Gretchen." He smiled. The smile said: "Much good it will do you." Gretchen was in the barroom arranging some roses over the fireplace. Her hands were bare; they were small and white, and surprisingly well kept. "Gretchen," said I, "I want you to tell me the legend of the inn." "The legend?" "Yes; about the Princess who was born here." Gretchen laughed a merry laugh. The laugh said: "You are an amusing person!" "Ah, the American is always after legends when he has tired of collecting antiquities. Was there a Princess born here? Perhaps. At any rate it is not a legend; history nor peasantry make mention of it. Will Herr be so kind as to carry the ladder to the mantel so I may wind the clock?" 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.