“Adam,” said Eve, and her voice was not steady, “I have considered, and”—
“Eve,” I cried, “can you not spare me that? If you feel any friendship for me, spare me that. I am blind enough, but I can see”—
“Oh, you are the blindest man that ever was.” And she slipped her hand within my arm, and drew it back again and began to cry softly. And at that I sprang to my feet, and my heart thumped like a hammer, till I thought it would burst my ribs.
“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking so it shamed me, “do not play with me. Do you mean”—
“Oh, you blind man, can you not see what I mean? Must I say it more plainly? It is yes, Adam, and no play.”
And she smiled at me through her tears, and suddenly, for me, earth and sky were flooded with a great glory.
Now, what I did next, I shall not tell, nor what she said to me; for those are things for my Eve and me to know and to remember. But any man who has been in such case as mine may guess to some purpose, if he will but try. And after some time, I know not how long, we sat there side by side upon the bank, most decorous, for out upon the water was a boat. But we might say what we would, and I might hold her hand, down upon the sod, out of sight, and I might gaze into her wonderful eyes and see in them the tender light that made them pass all wonders.
“Such trouble as I had to get you, Adam, at the last!”
“It served you right,” I said, “for your deceit.”
She laughed, a happy laugh. “You honest fisherman!” she said. “It was so easy to deceive you! But never again, Adam. You may trust me.”