It was a rather strange situation. The boy and girl who were endangering their lives by playing in the high rolling surf were the very ones who had followed the swordfish the day before.
With her eyes on the shining surf and the two dancing figures before her, she gave herself over to reflection.
The boy and girl below were tempting death. There was no question about it. They were playing in the surf at an exceedingly dangerous moment. True, there was no wind, no storm upon the sea. But there had been a storm somewhere. That was evident. It might have happened on the faraway coast of Florida. No matter, the seas that had risen then had journeyed northward. Now they were reaching higher and higher on the sloping rock where the boy and girl played.
“They think the ocean is a plaything!” Ruth said almost bitterly. Having lived her life in a fisherman’s cabin by the sea, she knew the ocean was no plaything. Twice in her short life she had looked into eyes that saw nothing, on arms that would never move again, lifeless forms given up by the sea.
As she watched, in spite of her dislike for sports that tempted providence, she found herself fascinated by the wild, nymph-like daring of the twelve-year-old girl who in a single cotton garment drenched with salt spray, hatless and bare of feet, sprang far out after the receding waves to turn and rush back as the surf came thundering in.
Now as she watched, the spray hid her. She sprang to her feet.
“There! There! She’s gone!”
But, no, the spray cleared and the girl, drenched, chilled but triumphant, threw up her arms and laughed.
“Who can help but like them, these rich men’s children!” she exclaimed. “They are frank and fearless. They never quarrel. They are generous to a fault. And yet—” she paused for a moment to reflect, “they don’t seem to have any notion of the value of life. They have never been taught to be afraid.”
Not taught to be afraid. That was it. Too much fear was destructive; too little fear quite as bad.