But before he could get nearer she dived into the water. The pedlar began to shout. In a minute the place was awake, for at the sound of his voice men sleeping in their boats at the quay’s edge leaped ashore to see what was the matter, windows were opened in the houses, and everyone was calling out to know what had happened. The Nix looked back and saw the crowd collecting. She swam for the harbour’s mouth with all her strength, and she was so afraid that they might put to sea and follow her that by the time the sun rose she was miles out in the clear waters. All was blue around her, sky and wave, and the land lay behind, a faint line in the sunshine. The great ocean was as calm as her own pool by the mill and her heart sang as she went out farther and farther. It seemed to her that the voice’s of the mermaids the pedlar had sung about were resounding from all the caves on these haunted shores. She had never been so happy. She went on and on. Time and space and distance were as nothing; everything was falling from her but the sense of a great joy. Far in the distance something was steering fast to meet her, making white splashes on the blue expanse, and soon she could see a face and brown arms rising above the surface. A great sea-kelpie was coming towards her, the seaweed trailing from his hair and his shoulders breasting the water. As they met he held out his hand. She put hers into it. Then they swam out till the coast was no more, and the remembrance of the world of men was no more, and disappeared together into the mists of the North. * * * * * 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.