“It will drip on your dress and spot it,” I said warningly. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. And she took a clam in her hand, and the water dripped upon her dress, as I had said, and it made a spot. She could not see it then, but I knew how it would look in the morning. She was a most careless, heedless governess. “Of course it matters,” I said, reproving. “You will see. Surely they don’t give you all the gowns you want, to spot with salt water.” She was puzzled again. “All the gowns I want?” she asked, wondering. “What do you mean?” “Up at the great house,” I said, “at Good--Mr. Goodwin’s.” The governess smiled, a merry smile that filled her eyes with light. For she was looking up at me then. And I looked deep into those eyes until her face was the color of her hair. “Oh, yes,” she said, looking down,--and I was sorry, for on a sudden it seemed dark,--“oh, yes, they are very good to me--in the matter of gowns. But I will be careful if you think I ought.” “I know you ought,” I said. “Waste is wicked.” “Yes,” she answered, musing, “I suppose it is. But I am afraid I haven’t thought about it as much as I might.” She was looking at me, up and down, from my mud-covered rubber boots to my old battered hat. I was clad as a clammer should be clad, and I was not ashamed. “You are not wicked, are you?” asked the governess. “You are not wasteful?” “Not of my clothes,” I answered. “I cannot be. And do you suppose my wife would drip salt water upon her best dress?” I thought I saw a shadow steal across her face. But the sun had left many shadows behind him. “It isn’t my”-- She hesitated and stopped. “Have you a wife?” “No,” I answered shamelessly. And she laughed aloud, a sweet laugh and low, like--like nothing else in the wide world. “Are you a fisherman?” she asked. I had forgotten how the garb of a clammer would be regarded by a governess to the Rich. “Sometimes,” I said. “I am but a passable fisherman. I can catch enough for myself, or, if need were, for two.” “And do you use the clams to catch the fish?” “Some of them.” “I should like to open this clam. How shall I do it?” I broke the shell upon a stone, and pulled forth the clam. “Oh,” cried the governess, “the poor thing! And doesn’t it hurt it?” “The scientists will tell you that it does not,” I said. “Never having been a clam, I do not know. But I know I cannot use them without breaking the shell.” “And what do you do with the rest?” she asked. “The rest?” “Yes, the rest,--those you do not use to catch fish. Come, tell me. Don’t make me ask so many questions.” “I like to hear you ask questions,” I said, whereupon she smiled again. And her eyes filled with light as they had before, and I knew that I were safer on the quicksand of the Hole than looking down into those eyes. But I went on. “The rest are eaten. Some make chowder, which is a mystery; some are steamed in the oven; but the rest are covered with seaweed and baked on hot stones. Did you never see a clambake?”