and heard the steady swish of the water about the bows. She dozed again happily; then, finding with a start that the sun had climbed far above the horizon, decided that it must be time to get up.
Joan threw on a shimmering blue-green kimono and shook out her dark hair. While she stood before the little mirror, the door was suddenly pushed open and in the glass she saw a child on the threshold, gazing at her in complete surprise. She could see only his head and shoulders—a crisp tumble of bronzed hair, an eager, intent face tanned to a mellow golden-brown. Then she turned and saw what the glass had not revealed, that he leaned rather hard upon crutches and that one brown leg was held rigid by a steel apparatus. Half Joan's pleasure vanished. She was thankful that she had asked to stay only one week.
"Well?" she cried finally, for her own gaze had faltered under the child's eyes. They were steady gray eyes, the color of the sea on a windy day, and they had not once left her face.
"Well?" she repeated.
"Are you a mermaid?" asked the little boy. "I wanted you to say something first, so I wouldn't frighten you away."
