Well, I believe that they got along very well till the first baby came.  As far as my observation goes, young people usually get along very well till the first baby comes.  These particular young people had a clear conscience,—­as young people’s consciences go,—­fair health, a comfortable income for two, and a very pleasant home.

This home was on the coast.  The townspeople made shoes, and minded their own business.  Dr. Sharpe bought the dying practice of an antediluvian who believed in camomile and castor-oil.  Harrie mended a few stockings, made a few pies, and watched the sea.

It was almost enough of itself to make one happy—­the sea—­as it tumbled about the shores of Lime.  Harrie had a little seat hollowed out in the cliffs, and a little scarlet bathing-dress, which was surprisingly becoming, and a little boat of her own, moored in a little bay,—­a pretty shell which her husband had had made to order, that she might be able to row herself on a calm water.  He was very thoughtful for her in those days.

She used to take her sewing out upon the cliff; she would be demure and busy; she would finish the selvage seam; but the sun blazed, the sea shone, the birds sang, all the world was at play,—­what could it matter about selvage seams?  So the little gold thimble would drop off, the spool trundle down the cliff, and Harrie, sinking back into a cushion of green and crimson sea-weed, would open her wide eyes and dream.  The waves purpled and silvered, and broke into a mist like powdered amber, the blue distances melted softly, the white sand glittered, the gulls were chattering shrilly.  What a world it was!

“And he is in it!” thought Harrie.  Then she would smile and shut her eyes.  “And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that Moses’ face shone, and they were afraid to come nigh him.”  Harrie wondered if everybody’s joy were too great to look upon, and wondered, in a childish, frightened way, how it might be with sorrow; if people stood with veiled faces before it, dumb with pain as she with peace,—­and then it was dinner-time, and Myron came down to walk up the beach with her, and she forgot all about it.

She forgot all about everything but the bare joy of life and the sea, when she had donned the pretty scarlet suit, and crept out into the surf,—­at the proper medicinal hour, for the Doctor was very particular with her,—­when the warm brown waves broke over her face, the long sea-weeds slipped through her fingers, the foam sprinkled her hair with crystals, and the strong wind was up.

She was a swift swimmer, and as one watched from the shore, her lithe scarlet shoulders seemed to glide like a trail of fire through the lighted water; and when she sat in shallow foam with sunshine on her, or flashed through the dark green pools among the rocks, or floated with the incoming tide, her great bathing-hat dropping shadows on her wet little happy face, and her laugh ringing out, it was a pretty sight.