“Never,” she answered, “although I have heard them mentioned. Are they rare feasts? I should like to see a clambake.” “I shall have one,” I said, “and you will come. And we shall have clams, fresh digged and weltering; and fish fresh caught; and chicken not too fresh; and lobsters and sweet potatoes and corn and many other things. And there will be a great pan for the shells and the husks, for you will not throw them on the ground, as we common people do. And you will shuck the clams with your fingers, and eat the corn from the cob.” “Horrible!” she said. And she looked at her hands, and laughed. They were shapely hands, soft and beautiful. I wished--but it does not matter what I wished, for I knew I might not have it. “Fisherman,” she said, “you amuse me. But I will come to your clambake.” “Do you find me more amusing than your teaching?” I asked. For one does not enjoy being laughed at by a governess with red hair and beautiful eyes, although to stand there, close before her, and to see her laugh, was a joy. “Yes,” she answered, “vastly more than my teaching. My teaching is not amusing. I weary of it.” “Yes,” I cried, “I know it. And do you find the doings at the great house a weariness?” “I do,” she said. “And that is why I came here.” “And will you come again?” “Perhaps. But when shall that wonderful clambake be?” “That,” I said, “is in the future. There are preparations. And besides, I would have it to look forward to. And how am I to let you know?” “Why,” she said, “that is a problem. Perhaps--you might leave your invitation under that great stone.” “And how should I know”-- “Why, again,” she said, “one might find something under the stone if he but looked.” And she was silent for some while. “Fisherman,” she said suddenly, “what is your name?” “Thomas,” I answered; “and what is yours?” She started, and for an instant she was angry. Then she laughed again, adorably, and blushed. “My name is Eve,” she said. “Truly,” I said, “I should have known. And I was wrong, for mine is Adam.” “Now, fisherman,” she cried, “you presume.” “I must,” I answered, “for it is the nature that God gave me.” “And, Thomas,” she went on, “you dig in our--in Mr. Goodwin’s clam beds.” “I do not,” I cried, forgetting, in my anger, “they are m--, they belong to a queer fellow who lives near.” “Oh,” she said. “And he lets you dig there?” “He lets me.” She mused and looked down at the clam beds. But the water was lapping on the flats by this, and the twilight waned. “I wonder,” she said, and stopped. “What?” “I, too, would dig for clams.” “Well,” I said, “why not? But not in that gown.” “Would it be a waste, and wicked? But you said it was spotted already.” “It may be cleaned,” I answered. “I wonder at you.” For I was impatient. What a spendthrift governess! “There are so many things I do not think of,” she said contritely. “But I must learn. And what gown, then?”