So the summer passed. And we--Old Goodwin and Eve and I, with some one of my friends or of my neighbors, as it chanced--scarce gave the stones time to cool before we had them hot again. I had some fear that my clam beds would give out. Mrs. Goodwin I saw as I had seen her; on the shore or on the bank--but always at a distance--and she fled, ever, at the sight of me. So I took no notice of her; and that seemed to be the wrong thing, too. It did not matter what I did. And the summer was come to an end--a happy summer for me, and for Old Goodwin, too, I think--and I had had my fill of clams. It was October; and in my house was a nurse, white-capped and white aproned--it gave me the horrors, making my house seem a hospital--and she was waiting. * * * * * Paternity has its responsibilities, so I am told by all who have the good fortune to be fathers--and from those who have not, I hear no less of it--more, perhaps. But, though I squared my shoulders, the load is light as yet, so that they bear it passing well. For who could feel the load heavy, for a mite that lies by his mother, as yet, and turns to the world but a red and wrinkled face, serious and thoughtful and unsmiling? For he has not yet smiled; and I doubt whether I am right in calling his face thoughtful. He is bent upon two things; and to those two things he directs all his attention, with a concentration that is commendable. And no sooner is his hunger satisfied then he composes him to sleep, graciously permitting Eve to hold his little red fist--if it is quite comfortable for himself. He regards me with a grave contemplation, on occasion, as if I were some unknown animal--which, of course, I am--no doubt he would look upon a hippopotamus or upon a bear with as little fear and as much affection--and, on occasion, he gives way to his feelings and laments, loudly. Then I disappear, and he stops crying, instantly. And I--I have not ventured to touch him yet--I regard him with an awe which grows as I regard him. For here is he--my son--that was not; and within these few days there has been born a new soul. It is the one great mystery, and I marvel; but a mystery I am content to leave it. I remember well enough--it is not so long ago that I should forget it--I remember well that night--I had waited since midnight--and the morning that followed. I could not eat and I but paced to and fro, still waiting. And at last came the nurse, smiling, and said that I could soon go in to Eve. So presently, after some further waiting, I went in. And there lay Eve, very white but very happy; and she smiled to see me come. And, having received my greeting, she turned back the covers and showed me my son. Only for an instant I saw him, then he was covered again. I was impelled to be respectful. But I must go, for Eve would rest her. Again I kissed her, and again she smiled. “I am so happy, Adam,” she said.