“Eve,” said I,--and my voice was steady,--“may a man come too early to Paradise? The woman comes after--though I have all my ribs.” “Fisherman,” she said, “you are a strange man.” “So I have heard,” I answered. “But you forget. A governess should have a better memory. I wonder that you can teach.” “I am but a passable teacher, Adam. I cannot even teach well enough for one.” “Well enough for two, if we be the two. For I am learning.” “Adam,” she said, “I might speak seriously to you. I ought to be angry with you”-- “But you are not. It is strange how seldom we are what we should be. I should call you ‘lady,’ as though I were a car conductor, and be most respectful, as befitteth a fisherman”-- “But you are not. Why, Adam?” “How should I know? It is the nature that God gave me. And those who stand nearest to nature--well, I am learning. Come and sit here, Eve, where I can see you.” “Now, Adam, really--you must learn. Even a fisherman should not need to be told to stand”-- “Your pardon, madam,” I cried, standing. “You are right, and as I said, I am but a passable fisherman. Did the first man stand, in Paradise? Probably he ran. But I do not, for I can see you well as we are--and that light on your hair, Eve”-- She stamped her foot. “Fisherman,” she cried, “it is too much. I will not stay. Remember that”-- “I am a fisherman. I will,” I said. “And you are a governess.” Then she laughed, which was what I wanted. I was missing the sun’s good-night, but what of that? For I might see his marvels half the days in the year; but this marvel that I saw--how many days? I wished,--but my wishes are vain. Still, there was I, looking up, and there was she, looking down and smiling yet, and the glory of the west was in her eyes and on her hair. “Turn, fisherman,” she said, “or you will miss your good-night to the sun.” “What I see pleases me better,” I said. “But stand beside me, and we will bid him good-night together.” So she stood beside me, which was a marvel, and the sun rested his red rim on the bearded hill, and we saw him sink. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the hill, I saluted, and so did she. And then she laughed. I love a ready laugh,--mine is not ready, but has to be pumped out, with a great noise,--and such an one as hers-- “Now, Adam,” she said, “we must dig. We have wasted time.” “No,” I answered, “for the beds are but now uncovered. See the colors, Eve. What would you give to paint like that? There is but one Painter.” “One could never learn,” she said, “there is so much to learn.” “But we are learning every day.” “And what have you learned to-day, Adam?” “Many things.” “From the sun?” “From the sun,” I answered, “and from you.” “From me!” she cried. “What have you learned from me, fisherman?” “Some day I will tell you, governess,” I said. “What day, fisherman?” “When we dig for clams at dawn.” “And when will that day be?” “In more than one week, and less than two.”