“You didn’t know what a view I had out of my window,” she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools—one on each side for the children. “Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight—the great sea itself.”
“Do you love the sea?” they asked.
“Sometimes,” Mrs Caretaker replied. “You said it told you stories,” said Alix. “Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in.”
Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment.
Then she said—and her voice sounded rather sad—“I can’t tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They’re not of the laughing kind, and it’s best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?”
“Oh yes!” cried the children, eagerly; “often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we do so wish we could see them.”
Mrs Caretaker smiled.
“I can’t promise you that you ever will,” she said; “but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees.”
“You’re not knitting to-night,” said Alix. “The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct.”
“It will be all right, never fear,” said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children’s heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker’s clear voice began to tell.