“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?”