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.”
She laughed, a merry laugh. “Shall a bride not be properly fitted out?” she answered. And she said it softly, as if 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 could not see the pebbles. And though the sunsets came earlier with each day that passed, it was become too cold to stay and see them. But 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.”