“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she repeated; “but I will come to your wedding--to my daughter’s wedding. I wished you to know that, so I came to tell you.” And I thought she would have wept, but she did not. For she was proud--and now I realized where my Eve had got her beauty. But I had found my tongue at last. “I thank you, madam,” said I; “and I am grateful for so little. I should be the more grateful for a little more--for Eve’s sake more than for my own--I am not your enemy, come to rob you, and if you would”-- “You have robbed me of a daughter,” she broke in, and turned swiftly, and was gone up the path, her head high. But I could hear her weeping, though she tried to still it. And so I stood and watched her out of sight among the trees. I was telling Eve of it that afternoon. And the sun was low, though it was early. Eve listened in silence, watching the sun. “Let us stay and say good-night to him,” she said, at last. “With all my heart,” I answered. “But let us walk, Eve. You will be the warmer.” And so she slipped her hand within my arm, and we walked to and fro along the shore, and we watched the sun. And, on a sudden, I looked at Eve, and her eyes were filled with tears. And I stopped short. “What is it, Eve?” I asked. “This is the last sunset, Adam,” she said softly, “that Eve Goodwin will ever see.” And the tears fell, and she was weeping. My heart stood still. “And you are sorry, Eve?” I said; and I scarce knew my own voice. “Would you draw back?” “No, oh, no, Adam,” she cried. “Not that--I did not mean that. I do not regret--anything. But--let me cry a little.” “Cry to your heart’s content,” I said, and smiled upon her; for my heart was going again--like a hammer. And so she wept and smiled at once, and then she wept again. And presently she was done, her heart eased. And the sun was sitting on the western hills. “See,” I said. “He has stopped his southern journey, and has started back again.” And Eve said nothing, but she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the sun spreading the still waters with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the hills, we saluted. And Eve murmured something, I knew not what. “Good-night, Adam,” she said. “Good-night, Eve--for the last time,” I whispered in return. And she fled up the path under the trees. For to-morrow will be Christmas day; to-morrow the gates will open. III OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE