She suddenly seized Lucile’s arm with a grip that hurt while she whispered, “That’s why I wanted you to come.
“She told me,” she went on, “that old woman told me,” Lucile fancied she could see the child’s frightened eyes gleaming out of the night, “about the men who were lost at sea; brave seamen who go on ships and brave soldiers too. Their bodies get washed all about on the bottom of the water; the fishes eat them and by and by they are all gone. But their souls can’t be eaten. No sir, no one can eat them. The old woman told me that.”
The child paused. Her breath was coming quick. Her grip tightened on Lucile’s arm as she whispered:
“And sometimes I’m afraid one of their souls will get washed right up on the sand at night. That’s what frightens me so. What do you think it would look like? What do you? Would it be all yellow and fiery like a glowworm or would it be just white, like a sheet?”
“Florence,” whispered Lucile, with a shiver, “tell her to be quiet. She’ll drive me mad.”
But there was no need. There is much courage to be gained by telling our secret fears to others. The child had apparently relieved her soul of a great burden, for she tramped on once more in silence.
Several moments had passed when she suddenly paused before some dark object which stood out above the sand.
“A boat,” whispered Lucile.
“If you’ll just help me,” said the child, “we can push it into the water.”
“What for?” Florence asked.