So all that day I wandered the wood, seeing the red of the dogwood and of the sumach, the reds and yellows of the maples, and the yellow leaves of the birches showing against the white trunks; and here and there a clump of pine, their dark green the darker for the color with which they were surrounded. But I found no beauty in any. Truly content was not there; or, if it were, I found it not. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, and the rotting logs and the dead leaves. I sat me down on a log, and from my pocket I drew forth a bundle of letters. They were Eve’s letters--and one for each day that she had been gone from me--and I read them all through again--for the hundredth time. When I was done the sun was on his downward journey, and I had found some measure of peace--and I bethought me that it was almost time for another letter. I seized my stick and hurried home. And with days like this one, or, later, with days when I sat moping before my fire, a book in my hand, my tale of days was coming to an end. I had great fireplaces, fitting for the chimneys, and I would gaze deep into the glowing heart of one of them, my book forgotten. I thanked Heaven that I was alone. For I was no less than a fool. I knew it well; but I had no power to do otherwise--the veriest lovesick boy might give me points--and then would come the postman’s knock at the door--I knew that knock, you may be sure, and, as it went clattering through the house,--before its echoes had died away,--I was on my feet, and running. And I would open to him, and he, with a knowing smile, would hand me my letter, and make some foolish remark about the weather. The weather, forsooth! What knew I about the weather? It might be raining great guns, but for me the sun was shining--with that letter. And so I made him some answer--which was as like to be wise as foolish, for I doubt if he ever heard it clearly--I do not remember one of those answers--and I shut the door before he was well turned about, and I hurried back to my fire to read--but not my book. So at last my tale of days was done, and Eve was come home. And I awoke one morning to see a thin skimming of ice, crisp and crackling, spread over every shallow pool, and it was well into November. And my breakfast was ambrosia and nectar, being the same that had been gall and wormwood before; for Eve was come. And if I did not eat much, why, that lovesick boy that I have mentioned can tell you why it was. Then having done, I hurried off, and on every shallow pool that was skimmed with ice I slid. And the ice rose up before my feet, and broke into a thousand pieces behind them; but I did not wet so much as the sole of my shoe. And I hurried over to my clam beds; for there, I thought, shall I find my lost content.