ree had taken
seizin of the northern hill, eaten their manchets of saffron cake, and
shared their canful of milk, she took up a post from which, while the
others scanned the offing for Spaniards, she could watch and time the
ebb of the tide on the flats.

The afternoon was sunny; the flat rock on which they were perched lay
out of the wind's reach; and to beguile the interval of waiting Annet
drew out a book which she had brought with her--a much-worn copy of
Hans Andersen which had arrived at Christmas, three years ago, as a
gift from that mysterious Aunt Vazzy of whom their mother talked so
often. Linnet stoutly maintained that this aunt of theirs, whom they
had never set eyes on, must be a fairy herself--neither more nor less;
and Annet had her doubts on this point. But the book, at any rate, was
real, with a real inscription on the fly-leaf; and the children (though
some of the stories puzzled them) believed it to be the most beautiful
book in the world.

Each child had a favourite story. Matthew Henry's was "The Tinder-Box,"
and he would wake in the night from dreams, deliciously terrible, of
the three dogs "with eyes as big as coach wheels." Linnet, who had a
practical mind, preferred such as dealt with rolling-pins, flat-irons,
and shirt-collars, because these were familiar objects, and their
histories usually ended cheerfully--(she liked "The Ugly Duckling"
because he was a duckling, but objected to much of the tale as being
too sad). Annet declared for "The Little Mermaid," which is perhaps the
saddest of all; and this was the one she chose to-day, though
half-penitently, because she felt pretty certain that it would make
Linnet cry.

But to-day Linnet no sooner recognized the opening of the story than
she set her face defiantly; and when Annet reached that most pathetic
passage where the little mermaid glances down sorrowfully at her fish's
tail, and "Let us be merry," says the grandmother, "let us dance and
play for the three hundred years we have to live," Linnet lifted her
chin, stared hard at the horizon and said resolutely--albeit in a voice
that trembled a little--

"I don't believe there are any such things as mermaids!"

Young Matthew Henry opened his mouth and stared, round-eyed at such
dreadful scepticism.

Annet, too, gazed up from her book.

"But the story says there are," she answered, simply and gravely.

"Who ever saw one?" persisted doubting Linnet.

"Hundreds of people--" Annet beg