One eve I met Marguerite on the shore. She was sobbing bitterly, for she had just come out of a cave in the rocks, where dwelt a Witch who could read the future.
I had taken the form of a slim, dark, serious looking lad, and laying a gentle hand upon her arm, ‘What ails you, Madame Marguerite?’ I said. She glanced at me piteously, as one who seeks a refuge and knows not where to turn, and wrung her hands.
‘I have lost my Etienne’s heart for ever, for ever,’ she wailed, ‘unless I can find the White Stone of Happiness, which a mermaid throws from the depths of the sea once in a thousand years. I may search for months, and never find it; and Etienne holds aloof from me, and grows further away each day.’
Now just at her feet lay a small white stone, smooth and round as a Fairy’s plaything. I picked it up and showed it to her.