And somehow Phyllis was fading away, slowly but surely.

The regret with which I had heretofore looked upon 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.