The miller ceased, and little Peter sat spellbound for a while, for he had forgotten everything but the adventures of the Water-Nix.
“And what happened to her?” he said at last.
“I can’t tell you any more,” replied the miller; “and how grandmother knew as much as that I don’t know, though, to be sure, she understood more than most people about everything.”
“The kelpie would take care that she came to no harm,” said Janet.
“You’re right there,” said the miller. “I make no doubt but they’re living happily among the sea-caves hundreds of miles away.”
“But the man with the untidy hair—you haven’t told what happened to him,” said the little boy.
“Ah yes, there’s more to be said about him,” answered the miller. “He wrote his poem, and it made him rich. There was so much Latin in it that people thought it wonderful. That brought him in a heap of money. He married and had a large family, and one of his daughters was my grandmother. She was a fine girl, and it seemed to him a bad come-down in life when she married the miller and came to live here. But they were very happy, for all that, and it was from the miller’s man she heard the story of the Water-Nix.”
“Is it because your great-grandfather was a poet that you can tell stories so well?” asked Janet, with some awe.
“Well, it might be,” said the miller. “Anyhow, it’s a fine notion. I never thought of it before.”