A lump came into Andy’s throat. He stamped his foot, but he did not cry.
Farther and farther away floated ‘The Mermaid.’ Now a wave would hide her from sight, now she would rise, gleaming red-and-white, only to sink from view again.
‘Good-bye,’ called Andy, the lump in his throat so big he could scarcely speak. ‘Good-bye, “Mermaid,” good-bye.’
And, then, I almost think Andy would have cried if, quite unexpectedly, out of the green waves, there had not risen a snow-white arm, that caught the dancing little ship and held it firmly by the string.
Andy stared and blinked and stared again.
Yes, it was a snow-white arm—he was not dreaming—and it held ‘The Mermaid’ fast. And the snow-white arm belonged to some one dressed in green, who no sooner caught sight of Andy standing on the beach than, stroke by stroke, she came swimming slowly toward him.
Where had she come from? Who could she be?
Then, in a flash, Andy knew.
It was a Mermaid, a kind, thoughtful Mermaid, rising from her home under the sea to bring back his little ship to him again.
Nearer swam the Mermaid, stroke by stroke. Nearer danced the little boat, growing more beautiful, more red-and-white-and-green with every wave. And brighter grew Andy’s face until, when he and the Mermaid were near enough to look into one another’s eyes, Andy wore a smile as bright as the glowing sun that shone above them in the sky.