The child, with the soberness that was so unlike her usual mood, but that had been evident since she entered the house, looked straight at him and then straight at Keturah Smiley. She had gathered that a matter of importance was at stake. It might be that she could help her Dad in some way, doing this. She said clearly and gravely: “Yes, Dad.” Keturah gave no demonstration of pleasure. She was not triumphant, but she seemed genuinely relieved. She looked at Mermaid with a stern sort of satisfaction, and said nothing. As they left the house and headed for the bay Mermaid’s hand closed in a tight pressure over the keeper’s. “You’ll come to see me as often as you are over, won’t you, Dad?” she asked him, anxiously. His answer was to lift her in his arms and kiss her. PART TWO I On the morning of the last day of October, several years after it was decided that Mermaid should live with Keturah Smiley in Blue Port, a thin, pleasant-faced boy stopped in front of Keturah Smiley’s house and whistled. Thereupon a girl of eleven slipped out of the second front door of the house, the front door that faced the street from a jog on the south side of the building, and ran out to meet him. She was as tall as the boy, and he was thirteen; she had long and slightly curling hair of so coppery a red as almost to match the polished mahogany in Keturah Smiley’s tight-shut front parlour. She had a very white skin, accentuated by three freckles of varying size on and about her straight little nose. The firm and rounded chin was without a dimple, but two dimples showed in her cheeks as she smiled, and she was smiling now; and her blue eyes were of that brilliant and flashing blue that is to be seen, as seamen say, “off soundings.” People who had occasion to say much to Mary Smiley, whom everyone in Blue Port called Mermaid, were frequently deceived by her eyes. The blue of them was so light that it seemed shallow, nothing more than the reflection of the day’s sunshine or the quicksilvering on two round little mirrors reflecting the merry heart within her. Only a mariner, after all, could be expected to guess that the very brightness and blueness was a sign of unfathomable depths. “Good morning, Richard Hand, Jr.,” said the girl. “Howdy, Mermaid,” retorted the boy. They looked at each other a moment and smiled. They had become chums at school on the day they discovered an uncle in common. But Hosea Hand of the Lone Cove Coast Guard Station, known as Ho Ha, was Dick Hand’s real uncle, the brother of his father, whereas he was only Mermaid’s uncle by adoption. “To-night’s the night,” said the boy, amicably offering a jawbreaker. Mermaid accepted the candy and said, with her mouth full, “I’ve unfastened most of ’em, so if the wind doesn’t blow and make them bang, they’ll be all ready for you. All you’ll have to do is unhinge them. Do you suppose you can do that?” “Sure,” said Dick. “They’re just ordinary shutters. Maybe a little rusted.”