“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking so it shamed me, “do not play with me. Do you mean”-- “Oh, you blind man, can you not see what I mean? Must I say it more plainly? It is yes, Adam, and no play.” And she smiled at me through her tears, and suddenly, for me, earth and sky were flooded with a great glory. Now, what I did next, I shall not tell, nor what she said to me; for those are things for my Eve and me to know and to remember. But any man who has been in such case as mine may guess to some purpose, if he will but try. And after some time, I know not how long, we sat there side by side upon the bank, most decorous, for out upon the water was a boat. But we might say what we would, and I might hold her hand, down upon the sod, out of sight, and I might gaze into her wonderful eyes and see in them the tender light that made them pass all wonders. “Such trouble as I had to get you, Adam, at the last!” “It served you right,” I said, “for your deceit.” She laughed, a happy laugh. “You honest fisherman!” she said. “It was so easy to deceive you! But never again, Adam. You may trust me.” “Always,” I answered, and stooped low and kissed the hand I held. And she stooped, too, and quite by chance, and if they saw us from the boat, I did not care. “And were you deceived?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “for half an hour. You are too honest, Adam. But I love you for it.” And then we did some other silly things, and cared not for the boat. “And what of old Goodwin, Eve?” I asked, after some while. “What will he say?” She laughed again her happy laugh. “What did he say, Adam? He seemed pleased, I thought.” “Eve,” I cried, “you do not mean”-- “He came there for that purpose, Adam. I confessed to him. He is my friend, I told you.” “Honest gentleman!” I said. “I beg his pardon. He may have my clam beds if he will.” “No, no,” she cried, “for they must be mine, too, those clam beds. I will not have them changed.” “They are yours, Eve,” I said, “for they were mine and I am yours. See the colors the old sun spreads over them now. He is almost sitting on that hill.” “We will bid him good-night, together,” she said; “a happy one, Adam. Stand beside me.” So we stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the sun, that he spread the still water with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the bearded hill, we saluted. And again we sat upon the bank, and saw the red west turn to violet, and then to green. And then Eve rose and said good-night. “Until to-morrow, Adam,” she said. “Until to-morrow, Eve,” I echoed. And then she seemed to listen. “They are coming for me, Adam. If you love me, run!” II A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH