Old Goodwin looked at me, questioning. “Your neighbor?” he asked. “I should like it much. But I thought you did not care for neighbors, Adam.”
I was ashamed. “I did not,” I answered, “but Eve has shown me—I was wrong.” Old Goodwin smiled at that, his quiet smile of peace. And I went on. “But you”—
“I will consider,” he said; and I remembered me of a time when Eve had said those very words. But she said more. There was “good fisherman” if I remembered me aright. “I will consider the matter,” said Old Goodwin. “And I must consult”—
“Ah!” I cried, “I had forgot.” And I smiled, more broadly than I meant to; but it mattered not, for Old Goodwin was smiling too.
“There comes Eve,” he said. And indeed, I knew it well. Was I not looking for her every minute that she was gone from me?
And that evening we sat before my fire, as we were wont to do, Eve and I; but beside us sat Old Goodwin. It occurred to me to think that Mrs. Goodwin was likely to be lonely—if she depended at all upon her husband for company—and if he continued as he had begun. If it were Eve and I, there would be a compromise—or a surrender—in short order. But, I reflected, all married people are not as Eve and I; and we have been married but a few months—although it will be the same when the months are become years, I do believe. And Eve and her mother are two very different persons. So, as we sat, Eve sewed upon her doll’s dresses, unabashed; and Old Goodwin, if he noted it, and saw upon what her fingers were busy, gave no sign of his surprise—it is not easy to surprise him—but he seemed to find pleasure in the sight. And, indeed, it was a pleasant sight to see Eve sewing there—pleasant for a prospective father and for a prospective grandfather it was as pleasant, as I judged. I doubt me much that Mrs. Goodwin sewed, ever, of an evening; or ever had sewed, even when sewing was to be done for Eve’s coming. The clothes that she had made for her baby were of the finest and the softest and the richest no doubt—but she had them made; and can even the finest and the softest and the richest, made by the hand of another, mean as much as these, with love sewed under every stitch of them? I do not think so. And the one thing she could not evade if she would;—but she had but the one child, and I think that was a sorrow to Old Goodwin. So we sat, and talked little or not at all; and the candles burned low, that they were but stumps. Noting that, Old Goodwin took his leave. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
Then followed other days; and, first of all, Old Goodwin must betake him to the digging of clams and I must help him at it. And, having digged many clams, we must needs have a clambake, for I would not destroy good clams to no purpose; but it was a sorry clambake, lacking the corn and the sweet potatoes and the lobster. And, though I sacrificed a chicken to it, the sacrifice went to my heart, for early in May is no time to kill chickens. I asked Judson to our clambake, and though he came, his appetite for clams was no more ripe than mine. But Judson and Old Goodwin met and enjoyed the meeting mightily; and sat upon their boxes and talked until I thought they would never have done. So Eve and I left them there, sitting upon their boxes. And presently they rose and wandered over into Judson’s place and I saw Old Goodwin no more that day.
And, again, we went to the woods, and saw them breaking forth into leaf. For the leafing of the woods is a little later than the leafing of a tree which grows in the open. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, but they were few and the pods were empty; for the stems were brittle, that the weight of snow had broken them down, for the most part, and the birds had gleaned the seeds. But the dead leaves were fading into mould, out of which peeped a seedling, here and there; and the rotting logs were fast being covered with a coat of green—moss and the creeping vines were doing that. And I saw the birches, their tiny leaves like so many little green spangles—or so they looked until I came near. And the pines, too, had burst the buds, that every tip was a lighter green, with clusters of little needles that, here and there, still bore their caps of brown; but the oak buds were just bursting.
I spoke to Old Goodwin. “There is much for a man to see here,” said I, “when he is retired—even in winter.”
He laughed and made me no reply.