Some there may be who will say--who do say, no doubt, for they dearly love a bit of gossip--that I am no better than an adventurer; that I have wormed my way into a girl’s heart under false pretenses, and will but devour what I find there; and that two weeks--or three, or whatever the time was, according to the usual measure of man--is too short a time for two people to have found out that they love each other. Now, those who are most apt to speak thus foolishly are my neighbors, who have mated according to their lights; and I have not observed that they are happier than other folk. Indeed, I doubt whether they are as happy. It is not to be imagined that my neighbors have remonstrated with me upon the subject. But I have observed, when I have met two of them together, they do but wait until I am out of hearing--sometimes scarcely that--before they get their heads together. “That’s the fellow,” says one, “who is engaged to Old Goodwin’s daughter.” “Is it, indeed?” says the other--and turns his head about, that he see me the better. And I stop short and lean casually upon a wall, my face toward them. For I would not cheat them of their birthright. “Yes,” says the first. “In two weeks. Disgraceful, I call it.” They gaze at me--both of them--as if I were some monster from a museum. “Rich, isn’t he?” asks the second. “Goodwin, I mean--not this fellow.” And they pass on, laughing uproariously. I would not stint their mirth, and giving over my leaning upon the wall, I, too, pass on. Therefore it comes to pass that I have no great opinion of my neighbors’ judgment. Indeed, I contend that they speak of that they know not of. Eve agrees with me in this,--she agrees with me in most things, now,--for have we not been engaged for one whole month, and not the littlest shadow on our happiness? And still I am wont to take my basket on my arm and my clam hoe in my hand and wander the shores. But the clams that I dig would make but a sorry meal, and the clams that I leave--well, they will be the bigger and the lustier for digging when I am minded to it. And it is easy to guess what clam beds I frequent. So it befell that I wandered, one afternoon, over the oozy flats toward my chosen hunting ground. The sun was getting low in the west, and well I knew what colors the Great Painter was spreading over the still water and upon the shining mud. But yet I would not look at them, but wended on, at a pace too great for a clammer. And joy was in my heart. For there, just where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone bright in the sun, sat Eve. And she smiled upon me as she spoke. “Adam,” said she, reproving, “you are almost late to-night.”