She thought within herself how indescribable all this beauty was.  A pleasant wind smelling of world-old fern-loam fanned her.  There were neither mosquitoes nor flies to sting, and, had there been, Adam was provided with a bottle of pennyroyal oil, wherewith he would anoint her face and hands, kissing any lump planted there before he came to the rescue.

Eva felt sure she never wanted to go back to civilization again.  Days and days of shining weather, fog-or dew-drenched in the morning, wine-colored or opaline in the evening; cool, starry nights, so cool, so dense with woods-shade that they drove her to hide her head in the blankets under Adam’s arm; glowing noons, when the world swam in ecstasy; long pulls at the oars from point to point of this magic lake, she holding the trolling-line at the stern of the boat, her husband sometimes resting and leaning forward to get her smile at nearer range upon his face; plunges into the warm lake-water in the afternoon when time stood still in a trance of satisfaction:—­what a honeymoon she was having!  Why should it ever end?  There were responsible folks enough to carry the world’s work forward.  Two people might be allowed to spend their lives in paradise, if a change of seasons could only be prevented.  Anyhow, Eva was soaking up present joy.  She half closed her eyes, and whispered fragmentary words, feeling that her heart was a censer of incense, swinging off clouds of thanksgiving at every beat.

Adam came from the spring with a dripping pail.  A fret-work of cool drops stood all over the tin surface, even when he set the pail beside his heated stove.  That water had been filtered through moss and pebbles and chilled by overlaced boughs until its nature was glacial.

The cooking-stove stood quite apart from the tent, under a tree.  Blue woodsmoke escaped from its pipe and straight-way disappeared.  A covered pot was already steaming, and Adam filled and put the kettle to boil.  Not far from the stove was a stationary table, made of boards fastened upon posts.  The potato-cellar and the cold-chest were boxes sunk in the ground.  Some dippers, griddles, and pans hung upon nails driven in the tree.

Adam spread the table with a red cloth, brought chairs from the tent, and came and leaned over Eva’s cot.  He was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, hardy-looking Scotchman, gentlemanly in his carriage, and bearing upon his visible character the stamp of Edinbro’ colleges and of Calvinistic sincerity.  He wore the Highland cap or bonnet, a belted blouse, knickerbockers, long gray stockings, and heavy-soled shoes.

“Well, Mrs. Macgregor,” said Adam, giving the name a joyful burr in his throat, “my sweethairt.  I must have a look of your eyes before you taste a bit of my baked muskalunge.”

“Well, Mr. Macgregor.  And will I get up and set the table and help put on dinner?”

“No, my darling.  It’s all ready,—­or all but a bit of fixing.”