He turned
again, eager not to lose a moment of the maiden's presence, half fearful
that she had vanished, but she was there yet, lying still as before.
Of course, it was impossible that she should be the sea-wraith of the
lost child; but, then, it was wholly impossible that she should be, and
there she was, smiling at him, and Caius saw in the dark eyes a likeness
to the long-remembered eyes of the child, and thought he still read
there human wistfulness and sadness, in spite of the wet dimples and
light laughter that bespoke the soulless life of the sea-creature.
Caius stooped on the rock, putting his hand near the water as he might
have done had he been calling to a kitten or a baby.
"Come, my pretty one, come," he called softly in soothing tones.
The eyes of the water-nymph blinked at him through wet-fringed lids.
"Come near; I will not hurt you," urged Caius, helpless to do aught but
offer blandishment.
He patted the rock gently, as if to make it by that means more inviting.
"Come, love, come," he coaxed. He was used to speak in the same terms of
endearment to a colt of which he was fond; but when a look of undoubted
derision came over the face of the sea-maiden, he felt suddenly guilty
at having spoken thus to a woman.
He stood erect again, and his face burned. The sea-girl's face had
dimpled all over with fun.
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