So he ambled off, up the path that was beginning to show, even in that dim light. For a path is made by walking upon it, and even once a day will serve for that. And that path was walked on more than once a day. As he reached a turn, he waved his hand to us, and we to him. “Eve,” I said, musing, “there goes a good man.” She turned to me. “He is,” she said. “And I am glad to have you think that, Adam. There are those--who say cruel things of him.” “They are wrong,” I cried. “I am convinced of it. From all envy, hatred, and malice, good Lord, deliver us. But what of that other rich man, Eve?” As I looked up at Eve, waiting for my answer, I saw that she was smiling merrily. “I told him,” she said, “that I was engaged already. And he seemed surprised at that, and he would know the name of the happy man. And I told him that, too. Did I do well? Are you”-- She stopped and hesitated. “Am I happy, Eve?” I answered softly. “Surely you know that I am. Happier than I thought I should ever be. And what did he say to that?” “Oh, then, he did not understand. For I think he did not know you, Adam. And I said you were a fisherman, or a clammer, as occasion served. You should have seen his face. And he but wished me joy, and went; which was what I wanted.” I chuckled. For I do chuckle on occasion. “I have no other occupation,” I said, “and neither has he. And he comes, in his yacht, to ask you,--steam yachts are luxuries, Eve, which my wife will know nothing of,--he comes, very grand, in his yacht, to ask you. And you tell him that you are to wed a digger of clams. And where is he now?” “I do not know,” she answered; and the smile faded. And I thought my thoughts, and was silent. Truly, the digging of clams has its delights, and not all the rich are fitted to partake thereof. For how many of them see what lies before their eyes? How many of them see the colors the old sun spreads on the still water and the shining mud? A flat is a flat to them, a thing to be shunned; a thing that will spoil their white flannels and get their dresses all muddy. Not all of them are Old Goodwins. And the works of the Great Painter are not for such as these. But the colors were gone now, and the light, too, and I heard Eve sighing. “What is it, Eve?” I asked. “Must you go?” “Soon,” she said, “very soon. But I was thinking of my mother. She hinted--almost threatened--that he would come again.” “That rich man?” I said. “He is better forgot.” And, indeed, I had forgot him already. “After all, what does it matter? His goings and his comings are nothing to us. And your mother--was it hard to tell her? I did what I could.” “It was not easy,” she answered, and I knew by her voice that tears were in her eyes, though I could not see. “Your note, Adam, she tore up before my eyes. Oh, I was angry! And I said what I should not. And then she said--she was angry, too--that she would not come to my wedding”--