“Eve,” I said, “again I have to thank you. But you should have appeared to me ten years ago. Where were you, Eve?”
“I was but a child, Adam,” she replied, “or scarcely more.” And as she spoke she smiled at me and sat closer; for she well knew that I was sore hurt in my self-esteem. She well knew, too, how to heal the hurt so that it leave but a scar—for she would not have me forget again.
And presently she drew a letter from the pocket of her coat. “See,” she said. “I have a letter from my father. They will come down soon—in two weeks. It is a full month before their time.”
I drew the letter forth. It was characteristic of Old Goodwin—only two lines, in his rapid writing, telling of their coming, and sending love to her and Adam. Eve had had a letter like this one—about as long—twice a month; he had no time for writing more. I had seen them all; and I had noted what was missing—missing from them all.
“No word from your mother, Eve?”
She glanced up at me. “Not yet,” she said. “But I have no fear, Adam. She is proud and she is stubborn—but they come a month early. No, I have no fear.”
And I looked out to my pine, where the hole was scooped in the ground and the seat was builded against the tree. The hole was filled full with dried leaves and other rubbish, and the seat needed some repairing.
“It behooves me to see to my oven,” I said, “for as it seems to me, we are like to have a clambake soon. And I have a mind to ask Judson—and his wife.” Eve beamed at me for that. “And I may have to get some new stones.”
Eve slipped her hand within my arm. “Do the stones grow cold, Adam?” she asked, softly.
And that made me to remember. I stooped and kissed her. “Truly,” I answered, “the stones have been passing cold and now they grow warm again. But it does not matter about the stones, for we have kept the fire warm upon the hearth—and in our hearts, Eve. And it behooves me to look at my clam beds, too. We may watch the sunset if you will—watch it from the bank.”