A Daughter of the Rich

SOME there may be who will say — who do say, no doubt, for they dearly love a bit of gossip — that I am no better than an adventurer; that I have wormed my way into a girl’s heart under false pretenses, and will but devour what I find there ; and that two weeks — or three, or whatever the time was, according to the usual measure of man — is too short a time for two people to have found out that they love each other. Now, those who are most apt to speak thus foolishly are my neighbors, who have mated according to their lights; and I have not observed that they are happier than other folk. Indeed, I doubt whether they are as happy.

It is not to be imagined that my neighbors have remonstrated with me upon the subject. But I have observed, when I have met two of them together, they do but wait until I am out of hearing — sometimes scarcely that — before they get their heads together.

“That’s the fellow,” says one, “who is engaged to Old Goodwin’s daughter.”

“Is it, indeed?” says the other,—and turns his head about, that lie see me the better. And I stop and lean casually upon a wall, my face toward them. For I would not cheat them of their birthright.

“Yes,” says the first. “In two weeks. Disgraceful, I call it.”

They gaze at me — both of them—as if I were a monster from a museum.

“Rich, is n’t he?” asks the second. “Goodwin, I mean — not this fellow.”

And they pass on, laughing uproariously. I would not stint their mirth, and, giving over my leaning upon the wall, I, too, pass on.

Therefore it comes to pass that I have no great opinion of my neighbors’ judgment. Indeed, I contend that they speak of that they know not of. Eve agrees with me in this, — she agrees with me in most things, now, — for have we not been engaged for one whole month, and not the littlest shadow on our happiness? And still I am wont to take my basket on my arm and my clam hoe in my hand and wander the shores. But the clams that I dig would make but a Sorry meal, and the clams that I leave — well, they will but be the bigger and the lustier for digging when I am minded to it.. And it were easy to guess what clam beds I frequent.

So it befell that I wandered, one afternoon, over the oozy fiats toward my chosen hunting ground. The sun was getting low in the west, and well I knew what colors the Great Painter was just beginning to spread over the still water and upon the shining mud. But yet I would not look at them, but wended on, at a pace too great for a clammer. And joy was in my heart. For there, just where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone bright in the sun, sat Eve. And she smiled upon me as she spoke.

“Adam,” said she, reproving, “you are almost late to-night.”

And, at that, the ganglion that I have mentioned, that does duty for my heart, leaped for joy, so that I was nigh to choking. And, indeed, though it is but a ganglion, it knows its duty well, and leaps for joy or aches with sorrow as well as the best-behaved heart in the world. I have not known the ache for sorrow since the day of my clambake; but it can make a man very wretched. And I am convinced that it can ache for pure joy, too — although that is a different ache, with happiness in it.

So I smiled back at her. “Almost late,’ I said, “is just in time. Late lias no " —

1 For the characters in this Story see “ The Clammer ” In the Atlantic for August, 1905.

“Adam, Adam,” she cried, “are you become a grammarian? Grammarians are tiresome. And I must go, for I have an engagement” —

“No, no,” I answered, in haste; for though in my heart I knew well she did but jest, yet I feared to lose her. “To perdition with all such! No, Eve, there is small danger that I shall become a grammarian. I have put all that behind me. It gets farther behind me, with every day that passes. And your engagement is with me.”

She laughed, a low, sweet laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “it was.”

And we sat there, silent, and Eve gazed at the sun, that was near his setting, and he gazed back at her. He set no longer behind the bearded hill, — the time was passed for that, — but there were other hills, and he must set behind them, for that is his destiny.

And I was leaning on my elbow, down upon the sod, and idly gazing at the sun, and idly gazing up at Eve. But I gazed at Eve the more. And the west was all golden, with a soft haze everywhere that left nothing with sharp outlines, — and the sun was set, like a great yellow diamond, in its midst. It was one of those days — come a month or more before its time — when the whole earth seems to drowse and doze and breathe forth peace.

At last Eve spoke.

“See, the sun is almost down. Stand beside me, Adam.”

So I stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we faced the west, for we would bid the old sun good-night. And as we stood thus, came Old Goodwin, silently, and stood at her other side. And she took his hand in hers, too, one hand to each, and we looked at the sun, and his rim rested on the hill. And there stood a tree, great and tall like a spire, that showed black against his disk. So we watched him sink, and, as the last thin line vanished behind the hill, we saluted, all three. Then Eve breathed a deep sigh.

“Such a lovely day, Adam,” she said, “ended in beauty! If all the days could be like this!”

“Truly,” said I, “beauty is from within, Eve, and each day is but what we make it.”

Then Eve and I sat us down upon the bank where we were wont to sit, and Old Goodwin gave me a quiet smile for greeting. He was a quiet man, peaceable and peace-loving, and I marveled, often, that he should be Goodwin the Rich. But so it was. And his automobiles flashed past my front gate, as they had done before, covering my hedge with dust and enveloping my house in nauseous smells; also as they had done before. But I like automobiles better than I did. I even ride in them sometimes, with Eve, on the back seat; and Old Goodwin rides on the front seat and drives as though the Devil were after him. Which I think he is not, for Old Goodwin is a lovable man, and a good man, I believe, as men go. So I sit in the back seat, with Eve, and hold my clothes on, — my hat I long ago learned to leave at home, — and I bump here and there, and now and then I shout a tender word to Eve, and I think my thoughts. And when we turn a corner — on two wheels — I thank goodness that there are high sides to hold me in.

But Old Goodwin had gone to a tree that was at hand, and from some recess had pulled some rubber boots. They were old boots, battered and dingy with much wading through mud. And after the boots came a hat, as old and battered as they, and a coat. And he put them all on, deliberately, and stood. And, standing, he looked more like some old fisherman than like Goodwin the Rich, which was, no doubt, why he wore them. My neighbors would be but too happy if they were to see Old Goodwin — and know him — digging in my clam beds, and their tongues are ever ready at inventing tales. Those neighbors of mine are a grief to Eve, and an incitement to anger, which, as every one knows, heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain. Eve does not like vapors. So I was at some pains to get those old boots.

And Old Goodwin, after further searching in the tree, drew forth a clam hoe and a basket; and being thus equipped, he hied him to the flats, which were, by now, almost bare, and he began to dig. Now that is a luxury which the Rich may seldom have, that they should dig for clams. Old Goodwin enjoyed it mightily, splashing here and there in his boots, and digging as the fancy seized him; which was as like to be where the clams were not as where they were. But he cared not at all, and drew long breaths for very joy of living; and the clams that he found he put within his basket. And with his boots, as he waded here and there, he stirred long lines of color, that went rippling in waves of yellow or red or a tender blue, until they died at our feet. For the west was all a brilliant, dazzling yellow, with one long cloud that showed indigo above, but a bright crimson below. And behind us were other long clouds, and they were crimson, too. But the sky, between, was a tender blue. And I gazed long.

“Adam,” cried Eve, at last, “how can you be content to sit there?”

I looked up, in some surprise. “ Should I not be content ?” I said. “ For here are you, beside me, and before us is spread a picture of peace, that changes with each moment that passes. Look at that tranquil water, Eve, with its long tongue of blue that marks the current. Should I not be content?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, “I hope so. I trust so, always — with me beside you. I would not have it otherwise. But even the tranquil water has its current. Let us dig, too.”

I laughed — as quietly as I could, for I would not break that tranquillity. She had me there.

“What a governess!” I said. “She has her way always. Well, then, let us dig — though it seems a pity to disturb the clams.”

“They live in eternal darkness,” said Eve, “It is better that they be disturbed. Besides, Adam, I came to dig. I got this gown on purpose.”

I had not noticed the gown. But she stood straight before me, and I looked her up and down, as she would have me. Truly, I could see no difference between that gown and any other — save that it was shorter. But Eve would look adorable in any,—and it was the woman that I saw.

And I said as much. “To tell the truth,” I said, “I did not see your gown. What does it matter what you wear ?”

“To dig?” she said, reproving. “Have you forgotten, Adam? Surely you would not have your wife drip salt water upon her best dress, and spot it?”

As she spoke she looked at me, and I saw that in her eyes that brought me up upon one knee. At least I might kiss her hand, with Old Goodwin pottering about my clam beds. He considerately turned his back upon us.

And so we digged for clams, too, until the light had faded from the western sky, and the twilight was almost gone. And when, at last, Old Goodwin turned and lumbered peacefully up the bank and sat him down, that he become once more Goodwin the Rich, behold, our basket was well filled. For Eve and I have but the one basket ; and her back does not tire now.

And I, too, sat me down, — for Eve had to take off her rubber boots, — and I sat me near to Old Goodwin. And once more he gave me that quiet smile of greeting that breathed of peace.

“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I asked. “Will she not see me yet?”

“Not yet,” he answered, still with that quiet smile. “But do you have patience. She will come around — at least, I hope so. It was rather — in the way of a surprise, you know. And as a surprise,” he added, with a chuckle of delight, “it was rather good — yes, it was a success.”

I sighed. I am not a patient man; and here was Old Goodwin counseling me to have patience. There is nothing harder for me to have. He could not have hit upon a more difficult prescription.

“I have had patience,” I said; “and shall go on having it until it leaves me. And when that will be I do not know but not so long as I can keep it with me. And, after all, I do not know that I care — except for Eve’s sake.”

“No,” he said, and the smile was gone. “ You win in any case — or so it seems to me. She loses. Remember that. She loses. And so I ask you to have patience. It is worth while, if only for Eve’s sake.”

“It is not easy for me to be patient,” I replied. “But I will, — at least I will try. That I promise, and no man can promise more. For I win in any case. She may gain a son or lose a daughter — but Eve — No, I will be patient.”

Old Goodwin had got his boots changed by this, and now he rose — Goodwin the Rich.

“I thank you, Adam,” he said. He called me Adam, too. “It will be the easier for me. And that is something to you — is it not ?”

I jumped to my feet and seized his hand. “It is much to me,” I cried. “If ever you see me going wrong, I beg you to remind me. For Eve’s sake and yours. That will bring me back.”

Indeed, he had been my good friend — my good friend and Eve’s. And now he smiled once more, Old Goodwdn’s quiet smile. I loved that smile, breathing peace on earth and goodwill to men. It was easy to see where Eve had got hers. She smiled with her eyes, too, and in them I saw — but perhaps that was for me alone. But Old Goodwin, with his quiet smile, was yet Goodwin the Rich. It was a marvel.

“You are good children,” he said. “Good-night — and bless you.”

So he ambled off, up the path that was beginning to show, even in that dim light. For a path is made by walking upon it, and even once a day will serve for that. And that path was walked on more than once a day. As he reached a turn, he waved his hand to us, and we to him.

“Eve,” I said, musing, “there goes a good man.”

She turned to me. “He is,” she said. “And I am glad to have you think that, Adam. There are those — who say cruel things of him.”

“They are wrong,” I cried. “I am convinced of it. From all envy, hatred, and malice, good Lord, deliver us. But what of that other rich man, Eve?”

For there was a certain rich rascal; and her mother would have had her marry him — for her worldly good. But she chose me. Which was but a disappointment to Mrs. Goodwin — too grievous to be borne; so grievous was it that she would in no wise see me. And I was to have patience. But as I looked up at Eve, waiting for my answer, I saw that she was smiling merrily.

“I told him,” she said, “that I was engaged already. And he seemed surprised at that, and he would know the name of the happy man. And I told him that, too. Did I do well? Are you”— She stopped and hesitated,

“Am I happy, Eve ?” I answered softly. “Surely, you know that I am. Happier than I thought I should ever be And what said he then?”

“Oh, then — he did not understand. For I think he did not know you, Adam. And I said you were a fisherman — or a clammer, as occasion served. You should have seen his face. And he but wished me joy, and went. Which was what I wanted.”

I chuckled. For I do chuckle, on occasion.

“I have no other occupation,” I said, “and neither has he. And he comes, in his yacht, to ask you, and you tell him that you are to wed a digger of clams. And where is he now?”

“I do not know,” she answered; and the smile faded.

And I thought my thoughts, and was silent. Truly, the digging of clams has its delights, and not all the Rich are fitted to partake thereof. For how many of them see what lies before their eyes ? How many of them see the colors the old sun spreads on the still water and the shining mud ? A flat is a flat to them, a thing to be shunned; a thing that will spoil their white flannels and get their dresses all muddy. Not all of them are Old Goodwins. And the works of the Great Painter are not for such as these. But the colors were gone now, and the light, too, and I heard Eve sighing.

“What is it, Eve?” I asked. “Must you go ?”

“Soon,” she said, “very soon. But I was thinking of my mother. She hinted — almost threatened — that he would come again.”

“That rich man ?” I said. “He is better forgot.” And, indeed, I had forgot him already. “After all, what matter? Ilis goings and his comings are nothing to us. And your mother — was it hard to tell her ? I did what I could.”

“It was not easy,” she answered, and I knew by her voice that tears were in her eyes, though I could not see. “ Your note, Adam, she tore up before my eyes. Oh, I was angry! And I said what I should not. And then she said — she was angry, too — that she would not come to my wedding” —

“We will have patience, Eve,” I said, “and perhaps she may change her mind. And, for the note, why, it is better torn up than passed around among her friends to be laughed over. Yes, I am glad about the note.”

“And I saved the pieces — every one,” she said then, laughing shyly. “After my mother was gone, I gathered them up. But now I must go, Adam. See, it is quite dark. You may come up the path with me — if you will — for just a minute.”

If I would! And if our parting took more than just the minute she had said, why, I will bear the blame — if blame there is. For I left her happy and with her eyes shining. And so I stumbled home along the shore, ray heart singing. And my supper — for what clammer would dine at seven — was ambrosia and nectar, being plain corn meal mush and fresh milk. And when I had filled myself full of it, I betook me to the seat under the old pine, and I gazed at the stars and wondered. I saw Arcturus, that he hung, red, high in the west; and Altair blazing above me. But, gaze where I would, I saw always that wonderful hair with the light upon it from the western sky; and those wonderful eyes with the light within them that made them to outshine Altair himself. And, gazing, I wondered if in all the worlds that revolve about those innumerable suns, there were a being as happy and as content as I.

So the days passed, and some days I found happiness, and other days I found it not; but usually I had it for a bedfellow. And it was lucky that I did, for what is to be said of a clammer who cannot sleep? And each afternoon, when the sun was low, I wended slowly over toward my clam beds, along the shore where the water lapped ever. And the Great Painter spread his colors with lavish hand, and peace covered the earth and was upon the face of the waters. And peace was in my heart, too, for there on the bank sat Eve, and she smiled to see me come.

And it befell, on a day, that there was a flat calm, and the sun veiled his face before he set; and, above, the veil spread out in a thin sheet, feathery and white, so that I could not tell where it began.

“Look, Eve,” I said. “To-morrow it will be stormy.”

And she said nothing, but only looked as she was bid, being content to take my word in all things. But Old Goodwin was not.

“Indeed! ” he said. “ What makes you think so, Adam?”

Then I was tempted. I might have entered upon a disquisition concerning cyclones and the sequence of the weather. But I put that temptation from me. It was but a part of my past.

“Oh,” I answered simply, “the look of the sky.”

“And in what does the look of the sky differ from its look on any other day he asked. “I see no difference.”

“It is hard to tell,” I said; “but this is the hurricane season. I may be quite mistaken, but I think it will storm tomorrow.”

And so he was forced to be content, though he was but half convinced; and he would have betaken him to the digging of clams, but the tide was not half down. This he mourned, with frequent upward glances at the sky. For Old Goodwin was become more skilled in the finding of clams than he had been. Indeed, I marveled what he could do with the clams he dug, for he no longer gave them to us. I mentioned it to Eve.

She laughed, whispering. “I fear, Adam,” she said, “that he is contaminated. Hesitsup late at night,after everybody else is gone to bed — and I met him. yesterday, coming from the kitchen. He looked furtive as he smiled in passing. Yes, I fear that he is contaminated.”

“Steamed clams?” I whispered in reply. “But steamed clams are not baked clams. They are, to clams from a bake, what — a bath in a tub is to a dip in that great ocean.”

“It is the best that he can do,” she said. “He may not have a clambake. My mother” —

“Ah,” said I, illuminated, “the poor man! We will have one for him. And we will ask your mother, too. She can but refuse, at the worst. And perhaps” —

Eve shook her head. “She will refuse,” she said — “or take no notice of your asking. But father will be grateful. There are so few things the Rich may do simply. Father would like to muss around, himself, — to help you with the bake, Adam, — and wear his old clothes. He generally has a horrid time.”

She was smiling and eager, and her eyes shone.

I nodded. “He shall have his clambake.”

So Eve went in early, and Old Goodwin, for the sky was become all gray and nothing to see. And, to me, there is nothing so dismal as a dull gray sky when there is neither wind nor rain. There is the same gray light on the water, the same wherever I look, and all nature seems waiting. After a day of it, I am fit for battle and murder. But now a little breeze came creeping in out of the east, chill and drear. And I was wakened in the night by the wind, howling like a lost soul in torment. I turned over and drew the covers closer and slept again.

And when the day broke, it was not tranquil, and no sun to see; and the wind shrieking and yelling out of the southeast, like some wild thing, with gusts of drenching rain. I ate my breakfast at my leisure, — there would be more wind before there was less, — put on oilskins, boots, and sou’wester, and fared forth.

And I came to the bank, and no Eve was there. Indeed, I had known better, but can a man help hoping ? It was much too early, and who could expect her to come down in that wind ? And as I made these excuses for her, behold, she stepped from behind a great tree.

Out from my clam beds — some way out — is a reef of rocks. It is grim enough in any weather: at low water just showing its rough head, dark brown, barnacled, bearded with seaweed; at high tide, in calm weather, nothing but a wide expanse of placid water. For which reason, the government, in its wisdom, and to protect the lives of yachtsmen, who ever walk in darkness, — the fishermen know it from the beginning of time, — the government had set, upon the most outward rock, a spindle. It was awkward enough, that spindle, with its sprawling arms, like a telegraph pole — but it served its purpose well, in ordinary weather, I have no doubt. But now — this was no ordinary weather, as any might see — it seemed like to go down, to be torn from its hold in the rock, or the shaft twisted and bent and broken, till it served no longer.

“Look, Eve,” I shouted. For the gale tore my words out of my mouth. “The spindle — it will go down at high tide — or before. See, it is bent already.”

For, as I spoke, a great sea smashed down upon the rock, sending its spray high; and when the wind had blown the bits of broken water far to leeward, leaving the rock in a smother of foam, I saw the spindle, that it stood straight no longer. And I watched for the fellow of the sea that had come. But Eve held her peace. And we two watched the rock, with its leaning spindle,and ever it leaned the more, but it kept fast hold on the rock, though it was nearly buried in the foam. And ever the tide came higher, until it was buried in every sea that came. So it was come to dinner time; and I felt a great hunger, that gnawed within me.

And so Eve went in, and I tramped home, in the rain, along the shore. But my dinner was too quickly eaten for a clammer, and I thanked a kind Heaven that there were not many more such lonely dinners,—there were far too many, but they could be counted,— there were less than a hundred. And, having bolted my dinner, which deserved better of me, I hurried back to the bank. And there stood Eve, and she smiled to see me come along the shore.

“Look, Adam,” she said, as soon as I was within hearing, “can you see the spindle? Is it gone?”

I looked. The tide was risen, now, so that only now and then, between the great seas that came, could I catch a glimpse of it; and I saw that it was bent almost even with the rock. It would be useless for its purpose, even if it held; and the tide that was coming would be very high. Even now the waves lapped about my feet as I stood upon the sand, and the seaweed washed against the bank; and it lacked an hour of high tide. I feared for the pebbles, that they would no more shine in the sun.

“I see it,” I said. “It yet holds fast to the rock — as fast as any oyster. But it is bent flat, so that it is no manner of use. It may as well go as stay. The water covers it already — or it would, if it were smooth.”

And, indeed, the seas broke no longer over the rock, save an occasional one, higher than the rest, and the trough lower. Such a sea did but open, an instant, to show the top, dark brown and barnacled; then closed again, roaring, in a whirlpool of foam. And Eve said nothing, but only looked. And as we stood, looking, and the rain running off from our clothes in streams, Old Goodwin came down to us, in oilskins and boots and sou’wester. And he said nothing, either, which was not strange, for he was not a man of words. And when he had been there some while, came a mighty sea, and fell upon the rock. I shouted at the sight of that sea; I could do no other. And when it was passed, the water opened once more, and there was but the shaft, bent and twisted.

“Gone!” I cried. And Eve looked at me with wide eyes, but Old Goodwin only nodded.

So we three watched for some while, and at last the water was as smooth over the rock as it was elsewhere. And that is not saying that it was smooth at all, — even on my clam beds, where it was, in a measure, sheltered, the waves broke high, so that I feared for the bank, — but the great seas raced evenly over the rock, and it was as there was none there; for no man could tell its place.

Then, on a sudden, the rain ceased and the wind increased, that it seemed the whole earth must be torn up by the roots. And up on the hill I heard the crash of a tree, falling, and then another. And the water was level with the bank, and the waves broke over my pebbles. Old Goodwin turned at. the sound of the trees, and said something, I know not what. For the noise of the wind and the noise of the water was a great noise, and swallowed up the sound of his voice. And he looked once more out to sea, and there came that into his face that made me to look, too.

Now there had been, a moment before, a veil of rain over the surface of the sea that prevented our seeing more than a little way. But now the veil was withdrawn, and I looked — and rubbed my eyes, and looked again. For there came a yacht — a steam yacht, and she was steaming her best, and with the wind nearly behind her she came at a great pace. Now she was lost in a hollow, that I could see no more than her stack, belching smoke, and now she rose on a wave, that I saw her hull all whole. And the yacht was come nearer, and I knew that here was that certain rich man come to plague me. I even saw the man himself, standing forward, and holding on by a stanchion. And as I saw, I marveled, for I had supposed the man a coward.

I turned to Eve. “Do you know” — But I did not finish, for she nodded; and her look was troubled. I hated that rich man with a mighty hate. And while I still gazed into her eyes, I saw them open wide with horror.

“Oh, Adam!” she cried. “The spindle is gone, and they will go on the rocks! See!”

And I turned. They had come on swiftly, — too swiftly, — and now were headed straight for the place where the rock lay hid; steaming headlong to destruction. I hesitated —I say it to my shame, though a man is but a man, after all — I hesitated an instant; then Old Goodwin began to shout, and I shouted, too, wading into the water up to my waist and waving my hands. For I would warn them farther off. And at our shouting, the man did but get upon the rail, still holding by the stanchion, and lean far out, and put his hand behind his ear. For the wind whipped the words out of our mouths before they were well spoken, and they reached him not at all. And the yacht was but a length from the rock. And the man understood, though he could not hear, and he leaned yet farther out, to call up to the captain; but the captain had understood, too, and she was already turning. And as we looked, and held our breath for fear, she struck with a great shock, and careened, and the great seas dashed high and hid her for a moment. And when she rolled back again, and I could see, the man was gone.

Then Eve shrieked and I cursed, under my breath, and 1 hurried to shore; and, hastily, I stripped off my coats and cast down my sou’wester upon them as they lay, and tried to pull off my boots. But they were filled full with water from my wading, and would not come. So I pulled out my knife and ripped them down the side; for I was of no mind to be weighted down with rubber boots. Then they came off easily enough, and I rose and looked at Eve.

“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “can you swim — in that water ?”

I looked out upon the water, that was roaring and racing. A fish might fail to swim on the top of that water, and be well excused for failing. And I was no fish, though I could swim passing well.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then,” said Eve, “go, and God keep you!” And she kissed me, taking no shame to herself that her father saw, and those on the yacht, — they had little leisure for observing, — and some of my neighbors, who had gathered near, — who had leisure.

And, with that kiss upon my lips, I could have gone to my death with a light heart; indeed, I knew not but that I was going to it. So I plunged in and swam, thinking as I went, with some bitterness, that here was I, risking my life for a man who was come but to give me trouble. Truly, I thought, he has begun well, and it will be no strange matter if the beginning and the ending are the same. Then I was come to an end of my shelter, and the wind tore at me, and the waves buffeted me, so that I was forced to give all my thought to my swimming; and that was well, too.

Now I have no purpose to give an account of my fool’s errand that I had swum out upon, for thus should I be but a boaster and a braggart and one marked out for destruction. But I found the man, — I do not well know how, — and I brought him to shore, to Eve and Old Goodwin, where they waited; and I do not well know how I did that, either. And I was weary, even unto death. And there I left him, to be cared for by those same neighbors of mine, and to recover or not, as it happed him. But I turned to Eve before I went, and she was crying softly.

“Oh, Adam, Adam,” she said; and with that she stopped and said no more, for she could not speak. But she put her arms about me, all wet as I was, and held me tight, and I heard her voice whispering, but I could make out no words. And when she had made an end of her whispering, she let me go.

“Now, Adam,” she said, “you are all wet, and you are all weary. Do you go home and get off those wet clothes, and rest yourself. And when you are all rested I will come and tell you whether it has gone well or ill with him.”

So I went, and weary I must have been, for I thought not to marvel that Eve should come to my house, and I gave no thought to the yacht, that had been in evil case enough when I saw her last. And as I plodded along the shore, it chanced that I glanced out upon the water. For the wind was beginning to fall already. And the yacht was on the rock, where she had struck, but she had swung clean around, so that her bow was toward the seas, and she seemed like to slide off. And as I looked, a boat put out from shore and pulled toward her. After all, my neighbors have their good points.

And when I had got into dry clothes, and had swallowed a draught of hot tea, I felt somewhat rested. So I went out and sat me down on the seat under my pine. From that place I could see the west, and the clouds were somewhat broken, and driving fast, but no glimpse of the sun yet, though he must be near his setting. And out upon the water lay the yacht, at anchor in a spot that was sheltered, and she was well down by the head. About her, like a flock of crows, were some small boats. And I looked no more upon the yacht, but I gazed at the tree like a spire, that should show against the sun’s disk as he set, and I thought with bitterness on what I had done; and my thoughts were the thoughts of Ahab. I even spoke aloud.

“Hast thou found me,O mine enemy ?”

And, even as I spoke, I heard behind me the light step that I knew and loved, and there was Eve. And she sat her down upon the seat beside me.

I looked at her, questioning. “Is it well ?” I asked.

She smiled up at me. “It is well,” she answered; and my bitterness fell from me as a garment, and I marveled that it was so.

And so we sat and saw the twilight fail, early, and the night fall. And out upon the water, a light marked where the yacht lay at her anchor, and the light bowed slowly, up and down; for there yet was a swell coming in, although the wind had fallen. And peace was upon my spirit, and a great content.

Under my great pine is a pleasant place for a man — or for a Daughter of the Rich, as I make bold to guess — with a heart at ease. And for a certain rich man it might, indeed, be pleasant under my pine — I did not know. But I was to find out, for a week had gone by since I hauled him ashore like any drifting mess of seaweed, and with no more life in him, as it seemed, than in the weed; his legs and his arms trailing in the water. And, Eve asking it, I had invited him to my clambake that I made to pleasure Old Goodwin. From my seat against the tree he might look out upon my clam beds. But it might well be that he would not care for clam beds; for every rich man is not an Old Goodwin. And he might see, too, the place where he so nearly lost his life. And it might well be that he would not care for that, either. But he should have the chance. And, to make the tale complete, I had asked Mrs. Goodwin, too.

And Old Goodwin helped me with the bake, and he whistled as he worked. He was no artist at the whistling, but yet it gave me pleasure to see him so well pleased, so that I must needs join him in his whistling; and I am no artist at it. either. But we were merry at our whistling, and we made so great a racket with it that any would have thought, to hear us, there was a flock of strange birds and it was springtime; instead of which it was fall and the birds had left, except some robins and some sparrows and some other. And even they were silent, for the most part. And the terns had gone, too, — that always marks the change of season, for me, — and the winter gulls had come, to take their place.

And when, at last, we had the embers all raked off, and the stones clean, Old Goodwin leaned upon his rake, and wiped his forehead. It was hot, there, so near the hot stones, and the fire just burned out. And he began to laugh, for sheer pleasure and for the merriment that he might hold in no longer; and, laughing, he could whistle no more.

“Adam,” he said, “do you know what it is that you are whistling?”

And I stopped long enough to answer. “No,” I said. “It does not matter. Make a glad noise.”

And, with that, I began to sing; and I am only worse at singing than I am at whistling. But what cared I ? And Old Goodwin, as soon as he could, for his laughter, joined me in singing. And he sang worse than I.

At last, our work done, we sat us on the seat and were silent. And Old Goodwin gazed at the smoking dome of weed, and I gazed out over the water. And presently he rose and went to garb himself, for he was dressed in his clammer’s clothes, that were well stained with mud and with salt water and with clams. And then I, too, would change my clothes, for I was no better dressed than he.

And when I was all arrayed, I set out along the shore, and my heart-beat was too high, by far ; but my spirits were high, too, that I scarce kept from singing aloud, or from waving my arms and shouting at the deep-sounding sea. But I remembered that certain rich man that I was to meet. What would he think of a clammer that sang aloud, by himself,— and most outrageously, — or that shouted an occasional line from Homer, — what could he think, but that I knew no belter — and no more ? So I strode along the shore and came to the bank. And I sat not down, but paced to and fro. And soon came Eve, and behind her came Old Goodwin and that other rich man. A moment only Eve smiled at me, and then she stood aside. And that other rich man stepped forward and broke in upon Old Goodwin’s speech; for he would have introduced us.

“We need no introduction,” he said. “Thanks seem a poor thing enough to give in return for my life, but I can offer you no more.”

And I took the hand he held out, and I murmured something, I know not what, about its being of no consequence, — which, indeed, it was not, though I should not have said so.

So we wended along the shore to the sleep path, and Eve walked beside me. She was not in white now, for it was cool, with a sharp wind out of the northwest. Indeed, what she had on I did not know, — some dark stuff gown that well became her, — I was not looking at her gown. And, walking so, we came to the steep path, and climbed it, and we stood beneath my pine. And before the seat against the tree stood my table, that I had made large enough for four; but the seat was unchanged, and it held but two.

Old Goodwin looked upon the seat, and he said no word, but he smiled his quiet smile and betook him to my shed. And I bethought me of Mrs. Goodwin.

“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I asked. “Will she not come ?” But I did but jest, for I had had no idea that she would come.

And that rich man spoke, and what he said was a surprise to me. “Mrs. Goodwin wished me to say,” said he, “that she feared to catch cold, as the wind is somewhat biting. But she thanks you for asking her.”

Then I looked at Eve, and she seemed surprised, too. But Old Goodwin had found his box that he had sat upon before, and he brought it out and set it by the table.

“I will sit here,”he said. “I have an affection for this box. It tilts nicely.”

And that other stared a moment. “I wonder,” he said, at last, “if there is another— no, no.” For I had started for the shed. “Let me get it.”

And I laughed and nodded, and he went. And we heard a tremendous racket, and presently he came,bringing a box that was the fellow to Old Goodwin’s. Laughing, too, he set it down.

“There!” he said. “And now for the clams.”

We sat long at my little table under my great tree, but at last it was cold, for the sun was gone behind a black cloud. And Old Goodwin rose, reluctantly, and that other rich man rose, too, and stood before us, where we yet sat upon the seat.

“I have to thank you,” he said to me, “for the pleasantest time and the most delicious feast that I have had in many a long day.” Then he hesitated and looked away a moment; but presently his eyes came back to mine. “You are a better man than I am, Adam, and better worthy of her. From my heart, I wish you joy. I shall not come again to plague you.” Again he looked away. “And I shall say as much to Mrs. Goodwin, — with your permission.”

And I stood, and took the hand he offered ; but I did not speak. I could not, for a moment. Then I mumbled something, I know not what, about his kindness. But it did not matter what I said. And my heart warmed to him,and I was sorry for him, — he had lost so much, — but he took it as a man should, and there was hope of him yet, that he become a man. I thought nothing of his having called me Adam; indeed, I doubted if he knew it. And so he went, quickly, without so much as looking back, and Old Goodwin followed as quickly, and they went down the steep path, and we heard their laughter. And I turned to Eve, and she smiled up at me.

“Oh, Adam,” she cried softly, “if we only could!”

“We can but try, Eve,” I answered, smiling back at her; “and we will, He seems worth it.” And then I mused a while, and at last I spoke my thoughts. “Eve,” I said, “ why did you choose me ?”

She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Why did I choose you ? ” she asked, perplexed. “What do you mean, Adam ? Would you give me up ?”

“Now God forbid,” I cried, “that I should do that thing! What man, having got you, would give you up ? But that rich man ” —

She laughed, a merry laugh. “Why, that is simple — as simple as life itself. I chose you because I loved you, and I did not love that rich man. And why it should be so I do not know.”

And what I did at that, I leave it to any to guess; for Old Goodwin was gone, and that other, and there was no one there save only Eve and me, under my great tree.

“I thank Heaven that it is so,” I said, at last, “and what the reason is I do not care.”

And, at that, the black cloud that, was before the sun spilled a few drops, great drops that splashed as they struck. For it was well over us, and almost passed.

Eve was distressed. “Adam,” she said, “do you believe in signs?”

“ Yes,”I answered, “if you like. Would you take that cloud to be a sign ? ”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“Well,” said I, rising, “so be it. But come where we can see the east, and I will interpret for you.”

So she rose, too, and together we went down the steep path and along the shore. And, as we went, I interpreted for her in this wise: —

“That black cloud, Eve, and the drops that it shed from its lap as it passed, signify the shadow of a sorrow. And I the shadow of this sorrow lies in the behavior of your mother, who will none of me; and who says that she will not come to your wedding. But that shadow shall pass, even as the cloud has passed. For look, Eve; you can see the sun.”

And, as I spoke, the sun was peeping under the western edge; and we saw his disk grow, until we could look at him no longer. And we were come to the bank, where the pebbles shone, red, in the sun. For he was near his setting.

“Now,” said I, “I may have to wait some while for the rest of my interpreting.”

And we waited, watching in silence, for some minutes. And the cloud was gone from above us, into the east, and there were no more drops; but under the cloud it was raining hard. And there began to form a bow: first a patch of color here and a patch there; then, gradually, the patches joined by fainter parts; then those faint parts brightened into a perfect bow with its ends dipping int o the sea, and with all its colors perfect. And, as we gazed, there formed, within the first, another bow, and yet a third — though one must look hard to find it. And it should go hard but I find a promise in it.

“Which signifies, being interpreted,” I said softly, “that your life shall be thrice happy.”

But the marvels were not yet done; for there came broad sheaves of light that overspread the bows, but did not hide them. And there, at the centre of the bows, was a tiny sail; and the sail was brighter than aught else, and it was as if the sheaves of light had issued from it. And above were great masses of cloud, roll upon roll, and the sun, in his setting, spread them with all manner of saffron and scarlet and crimson, and with all the delicate shades of pink that are known to man — and with many that man, with all his skill, knows nothing of. But the shadows were blue or lilac or purple. And we gazed long, until the brightness began to fade. Then Eve sighed.

“Oh, Adam,” she whispered, “it is so beautiful! Heaven grant that you prove a true prophet! ”

There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I had felt it before, and had wandered the shores, with my basket upon my arm and my hoe in my hand; and I had digged here and there as the fancy look me. But the clams that I digged lay forgotten upon the sands, to bury themselves once more; while I, seated upon a barnacle-covered rock, — or even standing, — gazed and gazed and saw nothing of what was before me until the tide, lapping about my ankles, brought me to myself. And then, with a heartbreaking sigh, I would shoulder my hoe, and again betake me to wandering the shores. Then, Eve had been the cause, for I had not got her; but at least I might find my content again at sunset, when I sat upon the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, with her beside me. Now, Eve was the cause, too; and my content was fled from me, and though I might sit upon the bank, I sat alone, or with no one but Old Goodwin. And Old Goodwin was well enough, but he was not Eve. And I had no joy in the colors that the Great Painter spread so lavishly, but was ill-tempered and out of sorts, giving short answers to the remarks Old Goodwin made, and never sitting still five minutes. And Old Goodwin but smiled his quiet smile, and was very patient with me; he knew well the cause of my sour temper. For Eve had betaken herself to the city, that she might the better make preparation for a certain Event. What Event that was, it is but a dullard that cannot guess; and it was eighty days off, and then it was seventy. Eighty æons — with Eve away. But I diverted myself by counting it in hours, then in minutes. It was a prodigious number of minutes— but I took what comfort I might in it.

And one morning I awoke at dawn, and, as I leaned from my window, I saw the ground all white with frost. Then the east was grown all red, a narrow line of color changing above to yellow and a faint green, and, on a sudden, the sun popped up. And then I got to thinking of that other dawn that Eve and I had seen, and content abode with me no longer. And I drew in my head and dressed in sullen haste and went down to breakfast. It was a good breakfast, but gall and wormwood had been sweeter in my mouth if I could but find again that peace I sought; and, having done, I lighted my pipe and went forth, and I betook me to the woods. Perchance content had taken refuge there.

So, all that day, I wandered the wood, seeing the red of the dogwood and of the sumach, the reds and yellows of the maples, and the yellow leaves of the birches showing against the white trunks; and, here and there, a clump of pine, their dark green the darker for the color with which they were surrounded. But I found no beauty in any. Truly, content was not there; or, if it were, I found it not. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, and the rotting logs, and the dead leaves.

At last my tale of days was done, and Eve was come home. And I awoke one morning to see a thin skimming of ice, crisp and crackling, spread over every shallow pool, and it was well into November. And my breakfast was ambrosia and nectar, being the same that had been gall and wormwood before; for Eve was come. And, if I did not eat much, why, any lovesick boy can tell you why it was. Then, having done, I hurried off, and on every shallow pool that was skimmed with ice I slid. And the ice rose up before my feet, and broke into a thousand pieces behind them; but I did not wet so much as the sole of my shoe. And I hurried over to my clam beds, where the sod breaks off to the sand; for there, I thought, shall I find my lost content.

The sun lay warm upon the bank, but no Eve was there. And I paced to and fro, fuming with impatience, my head down upon my breast. For I found not content, having been certain that I should find it, that had been lost to me for a month, and more. And, as I paced the shore, to and fro, there came a light touch upon my shoulder. I turned, swiftly, and there was Eve, her eyes shining. And I — but I know not what I did — and, if I knew, I would not tell.

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking, “you were gone so long!”

And she only smiled up at me, the same smile that I had seen so often, in my dreaming before my fire; and I knew that I had found again that peace that had been so long lost. And what we did then is for my Eve and me to remember; but presently we found ourselves sitting upon the bank, and the ice was gone from the shore, and the sun shone warm.

“And when shall I see,” I asked, “your finery? So long a visit should accomplish much.”

“Shall a bride not be properly fitted out?” she answered. And she said it softly, as she were half ashamed — and, at that, I kissed her — I could not help it. Eve did not chide me for it. “And you shall see all my finery — on Christmas day; or any day after.”

Then I looked blank, I do not doubt, and she laughed again her merry laugh. For Christmas day is to be our wedding day. But I had Eve. That was enough — and she had promised that, she would not go away again. And we sat there, talking or silent, as the whim took us, until Eve was cold.

So the days passed, and I was happy ; and the leaves of the wood, that had been red and yellow and bronze, turned to a dull brown and fell, whirling: but the oaks kept theirs, and they rattled in each breeze. And the ice formed on the shore, great, jagged cakes that covered my clam beds, and the bank as well, so that we might no more see the pebbles. And though the sunsets came earlier with each day that passed, it was become too cold to stay and see them. And the days of my waiting were grown less and less, till there was but one left. Still there was no snow. And the morrow was Christmas day.

I was prowling the shores that morning, looking for Eve, — as I ever did when I was not with her. And as I made my way carefully among the broken cakes of ice that the tide had left, I saw her coming down the path under the trees. I hurried — and looked again — and, behold, it was not Eve at all, but a lady clad in furs, and seeming proud and haughty. And she came near the bank, and so did I.

“I wished to speak with you,” she said. And I bowed low. But what she said next astonished me.

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she said again, her head high, — “and you a fisherman!”

Again I bowed low, saying nothing. What should I say to that? Had she not been told ? I had ado not to laugh — but I did not, only bowed. And yet again she spoke.

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she repeated; “but I will come to your wedding — to my daughter’s wedding. I wished you to know that, so I came to tell you.”

And I thought she would have wept, but she did not. For she was proud — and now I realized where my Eve had got her beauty. But I had found my tongue at last.

“I thank you, madam,” said I; “and I am grateful for so little. I should be the more grateful for a little more— for Eve’s sake more than for my own. I am not your enemy, come to rob you, and if you would” —

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she broke in; and turned swiftly, and was gone up the path, her head high. But I could hear her weeping, though she tried to still it. And so I stood and watched her out of sight among the trees.

I was telling Eve of it, that afternoon. And the sun was low, though it was early. And Eve listened in silence, watching the sun.

“Let us stay and say good-night to him,” she said, at last.

“With all my heart,” I answered. “But let us walk, Eve. You will be the warmer.”

And so she slipped her hand within my arm, and we walked to and fro along the shore, and we watched the sun. And, on a sudden, I looked at Eve, and her eyes were filled with tears. And I stopped short.

“What is it, Eve?” I asked.

“This is the last sunset, Adam,” she said softly, “that Eve Goodwin will ever see.”

And the tears fell, and she was weeping. My heart stood still.

“And you are sorry, Eve?” I said; and I scarce knew my own voice. “ Would you draw back ?”

“No, oh, no, Adam,” she cried. “Not that — I did not mean that. I do not regret— anything. But — let me cry a little.”

“Cry, to your heart’s content,” I said, and smiled upon her; for my heart was going again — like a hammer.

And so she wept and smiled at once, and then she wept again. And presently she was done, her heart eased. And the sun was sitting on the western hills.

“See,” I said. “He has stopped his southern journey, and has started back again. Or I think I see it.”

And Eve said nothing, but she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the sun, that he spread the still waters with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the hills, we saluted. And Eve murmured something, I knew not. what.

“Good-night, Adam,” she said.

“ Good-night, Eve — for the last time,” I whispered in return.

And she fled up the path under the trees.

For to-morrow will be Christmas day; to-morrow the gates will open.