sed. Besides, there was
an agreeable air of mystery about it: we thought of Delphi, and Eleusis,
and Samothrace: we should discover that Truth which the dim eyes of
worldly men and women were unable to see, and the day of disclosure
would be the day of Triumph. In one sense we were truly Arcadians: no
suspicion of impropriety, I verily believe, entered any of our minds. In
our aspirations after what we called a truer life there was no material
taint. We were fools, if you choose, but as far as possible from
being sinners. Besides, the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Shelldrake, who
naturally became the heads of our proposed community were sufficient
to preserve us from slander or suspicion, if even our designs had been
publicly announced.

"I won't bore you with an account of our preparations. In fact, there
was very little to be done. Mr. Shelldrake succeeded in hiring the
house, with most of its furniture, so that but a few articles had to
be supplied. My trunk contained more books than boots, more blank paper
than linen.

"'Two shirts will be enough,' said Abel: 'you can wash one of them any
day, and dry it in the sun.'

"The supplies consisted mostly of flour, potatoes, and sugar. There was
a vegetable-garden in good condition, Mr. Shelldrake said, which would
be our principal dependence.

"'Besides, the clams!' I exclaimed unthinkingly.

"'Oh, yes!' said Eunice, 'we can have chowder-parties: that will be
delightful!'

"'Clams! chowder! oh, worse than flesh!' groaned Abel. 'Will you
reverence Nature by outraging her first laws?'

"I had made a great mistake, and felt very foolish. Eunice and I looked
at each other, for the first time."

"Speak for yourself only, Enos," gently interpolated his wife.

"It was a lovely afternoon in the beginning of June when we first
approached Arcadia. We had taken two double teams at Bridgeport, and
drove slowly forward to our destination, followed by a cart containing
our trunks and a few household articles. It was a bright, balmy day:
the wheat-fields were rich and green, the clover showed faint streaks
of ruby mist along slopes leaning southward, and the meadows were yellow
with buttercups. Now and then we caught glimpses of the Sound, and, far
beyond it, the dim Long Island shore. Every old white farmhouse, with
its gray-walled garden, its clumps of lilacs, viburnums, and early
roses, offered us a picture of pastoral simplicity and repose. We passed
them, one by one, in th