When he came down to the evening meal, he
found himself wondering foolishly upon what food the child lost in the
sea had fed while she grew so rapidly to a woman's stature. The present
meal was such as fell to the daily lot of that household. In homely blue
delft cups a dozen or more eggs were ranged beside high stacks of
buttered toast, rich and yellow. The butter, the jugs of yellow cream,
the huge platter heaped with wild raspberries--as each of these met his
eye he was wondering if the sea-maid ever ate such food, or if her diet
was more delicate.
"Am I going mad?" he thought to himself. The suspicion was depressing.
Three hours after, Caius sough his father as the old man was making his
nightly tour of the barns and stables. By way of easing his own sense of
responsibility he had decided to tell his father what he had seen, and
his telling was much like such confession of sins as many people make,
soothing their consciences by an effort that does not adequately reveal
the guilt to the listener.
Caius came up just as his father was locking the stable door.
"Look here, father; wait a minute. I have something to say. I saw a very
curious thing down at the shore to-day, but I don't want you to tell
mother, or Mabel, or the men."
The old man stood gravely expectant. The summer twilight just revealed
the outline of his thin figure and ragged hair and beard.
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