“I am so happy,” said Eva, “so lazy and happy, it doesn’t seem fair to the rest of the world.”

“There is at this time no rest of the world,” responded Adam.  “Nothing has been created but an island and one man and woman.  Do you belaive me?”

“I would if I didn’t see those farm-houses, and the boats occasionally coming and going on the lake; yes, and if you didn’t have to row across there for butter and milk, and to Magog village for other supplies.”

“That’s a mere illusion.  We live here on ambrosial distillations from the rocks and muskalunge from the lake.  I never came to Canada from old Glazka town, and never saw Loch Achray, or Loch Lomond, or any body of water save this, since I was created in God’s image without any knowledge of the catechism.  And let me see a mon set foot on this strond!”

“Oh, you inhospitable creature!”

“I but said let me see him.”

“Yes, but I know what you meant.  You meant you didn’t want anybody.”

“My wants are all satisfied, thank God,” said Adam, lifting his cap.  “I have you, and the breath o’ life, and the camp-outfit.”

“And the mountains, and the lake, and the rocks, and the woods,” added Eva.  “I never could have believed there were such sublime things in the world if I hadn’t seen them.”

“Neither could I,” owned the Scotchman.  “Especially such a sublime thing as me wife.”

Eva struck at him, restraining her palm from bringing more than a pat upon his cheek.

“How your little hand makes me tremble!” said Adam, drawing his breath from chest-depths.  “Will I ever grow to glimpse at you without having the blood spurt quick from me hairt, or to touch you without this faintness o’ joy?  And don’t mock me wi’ your eyes, bonnie wee one, for it’s bonnie wee one you’ll be to me when you’re a fat auld woman the size of yonder mountain.  And that changes the laughter in your eyes.”

“I didn’t suppose you ever could call me a fat old woman.”

“I’ll be an auld man then meself, me fiery locks powthered with ashes, and my auld knees knocking one at the ither,” laughed Adam.

    “But hand in hand we’ll go,”
sang Eva,
    “And sleep thegither at the foot,
    Joh—­n Ander—­son, my jo—­o.”

“Oh, don’t!” said Adam, with a sudden grasp on her wrist.  “My God! one must go first; and I could naither leave you nor close these eyes of yours.”  He put his other hand across his eyelids, his lower features wincing.  “Sweetheart,” said Adam, removing it, and taking her head between his palms, “for what we have already received the Lord make us duly thankful.  And shut up about the rest.  And there’s grace said for dinner:  excepting I didn’t uncover me head.  Excuse me bonnet.”

“Take off your ridiculous bonnet,” said Eva, emerging from the eclipse of a long kiss, “and drag me out of my web.  If I am to be your helpmeet, make me help.”