“And why not any day, Adam,--when I will?” “The tide, Eve. Even a woman must wait for the tide. See, it has made us late to-night.” “Come, fisherman,” she said, “let us dig quickly, or it will be too late.” So I drew the boots from my basket, and she took them. “Fisherman,” she said, “these are new. Where did you get them?” “I had them,” I replied; which was true. I had had them since the morning. She sat behind a tree and put them on, and I heard her laughing to herself. Then she came forth. “They are too large,” she said, “but it does not matter.” I might have known it. But what know I of women’s boots? “My stock is small,” I answered. “I had no other size.” And that was true, too. So I showed her how to dig, and when her hoe broke through a shell, she almost wept. But she dug six. “I am tired,” she said then. “I will dig no more to-night. Does your back get tired, too?” “Not now,” said I, “but it did at first.” Then she sat behind the tree and changed the boots, and we hung them in the tree against another time. And then we sat upon the bank, for the colors had not faded. And Eve sat silent, gazing at the water and the western sky; and I sat silent and gazed up at her. “Eve,” said I. She turned and looked at me, but did not speak. “I think many things,” I said, “and some of them I would say.” “No,” she answered, “do not say them. Watch the sky and the water while the colors last. See, it is almost dark.” “The water and the sky are from everlasting to everlasting, Eve, so far as I am concerned. But you--no, I must make the most of what I have.” “Fisherman,” she said, “you must not speak so to me.” “And why not, governess? Does it displease you? May a fisherman not say his say to a governess? If I were a--what must I be, to rank with a governess? Would my speech offend you then?” “Adam,” she answered, “I came here to dig for clams.” “Truly,” said I, “we did, and to see the sun go down.” “And the sun is gone, and the clams are digged, and I must go.” “Eve,” I observed, “you are a logician.” “I am not,” she replied. “I am a woman.” “Heaven be praised for that!” I cried. “A perfect work!” “Adam,” she said, and she was half laughing as she spoke, “I ought to be angry with you.” “You ought not,” I answered, “for it heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain. Or so the ancient writers tell us. Besides, I do not like it.” “Like a woman’s postscript,” said she. “You are a strange fisherman.” “Truly,” I said, “I am. But see the water and the sky, Eve. What peace and tranquillity! Can you feel anger when you look upon that? And what am I? The grass of the field, and to-morrow I shall be cast into the oven. For to-morrow it will be hot.” “You speak much nonsense, Adam.” “Nonsense is the savor of life, Eve.” She said nothing, but sat there, with her hands clasped about her knees, and I gazed up at her and was content. And the twilight faded and was gone. “Now I must go,” she said at last.