“A short one,” I said, “and an old one, if you have such a thing. I never heard of so extravagant a governess.” “Oh,” she said, and smiled again. And I saw the light in her eyes, though it was nearly dark. “And have you known many governesses, fisherman?” “None,” said I. “But my name is Adam.” “You said Thomas.” “Eve,” I replied, with firmness, “I said Adam.” “Well, then, Adam, what else?” “Boots,” I answered,--“rubber boots. See mine.” It was not light enough, but she had seen. “Yes,” she said, “but governesses do not have rubber boots.” “They should,” said I, “for the grass is wet even now, and it is long. But I will bring you some.” “Oh,” she began, and stopped. And I knew she blushed, though I could not see. “And I wonder,” she went on, “if that queer fellow would let me dig, too.” “He would.” “You seem very sure, fisherman.” “Adam,” I corrected. “Well, then, Adam.” “I am sure,” I said; “and besides, I shall not tell him.” “It is very dark,” she observed. “The twilight is quite gone.” “Not quite gone. See the west.” Indeed, there was a light streak in the west, and the bearded hill was marked against it. “I must go in,” she said; but she did not rise. “Not yet,” I urged. “I must go in,” she repeated, “or they will send for me.” And this time she rose. “I will go with you,” I insisted. “No,” she said, “you will stay. Good-night, fisherman.” “Adam,” I corrected. “Governesses should have better memories.” She laughed. I loved to hear her laugh, and I would have seen her eyes. “Good-night, Adam.” “Good-night, Eve. To-morrow”-- But she was gone, swiftly, and I stayed, as I was commanded. And my heart was beating as no clammer’s should. For a heart-beat of above seventy a minute is not fitting for a clammer. I sat, that night, with my book in my lap, staring into the dark shadows, and my candle sputtered and went out. Will this new light go out of my life, too? * * * * * I sat upon the edge of the bank, just where the sod breaks off to the sand, and I stared at the red sun, and he stared back at me. I sat close beside the place where the governess had sat,--very close,--but that place was vacant. For perhaps, I thought, perhaps-- And the old sun spread his colors lavishly over the still water and upon the wet sand; his purples and his reds and his dainty shades of pink and blue and green. If I could mix my colors like that--or are they mixed? My scientific training does not help me much. It does not tell me why the colors are now brighter than they were yesterday, and now sombre. There is more than one kind of reflection, and science knows them not. And, as I stared and wondered--for these things are marvels--came a sweet voice behind me, and my heart leaped up into my throat and choked me. And I did not stop to reflect that it was not my heart at all, but some ganglion or plexus or what not. What cared I for ganglion or plexus? “Fisherman,” said the sweet voice, “you are early.”