But the girl showed no sign of embarrassment. She smiled at him again, and her smile was brighter than sunlight shining through the curl of a breaking wave.
“I'm just going out for a sail again,” she said, “and I've room for a passenger. Old John has just gone to have a yarn with the sailmaker. Would you care to come?”
Peter jumped onto the Maeldune's thwart, and the girl cast off and hoisted the sail. “I'm afraid I don't know anything about sailing,” said Peter.
The girl laughed, and her laugh sounded like the ripple of a stream that runs over a pebbly beach.
“That doesn't matter,” she said; “I can manage the old Maeldune single-handed.”
They beat down the harbor, rounded the Loze, and stood out in the direction of mid-channel. Peter was entirely happy. The wind was blowing fresh from the southwest, and the Maeldune danced lightly over the waves like a thing alive, her thwarts aslant and her lee-rail just clear of the water.
“This is glorious,” said Peter. “Do you know, this is the first time I have ever been on the sea.”
“It won't be the last,” said the girl.
For a long while neither spoke again. Peter did not want to talk. He was content to watch the Sea Maid as she sat at the tiller, looking toward the horizon with dreamy eyes and crooning to herself a wordless song that sounded like the surge of breakers on a distant reef.
“What song is that?” he asked after a long silence.