"Is that the sort of stories you write?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, "but I am afraid mine will not be so pretty."
"You must take pains," he says.
And I promise.
For a time he makes no sound. I go on writing and forget about him.
"Is there a little mermaid down there, in the water?" he asks.
"Yes, she swims up to the top in the summer."
He nods and looks out across the brook, which ripples so softly and smoothly that one can hardly see the water flow. On the opposite side, the rushes grow green and thick and there is also a bird, hidden in the rushes, which sings. The dragon-flies are whirling and humming. I am sitting with my head in my hand, absorbed in my work.
Suddenly, I hear a splash.
I jump from my chair, upset the table, dart forward and see that my little boy is gone. The brook is billowing and foaming; there are wide circles on the surface.