“The barrow?” Mrs. Pearce repeated. “That great hulking barrow—you took the barrow to bring the shrimps home in? No—I can’t keep it to myself—that really I can’t—” she lay back in the armchair and shook with silent laughter. The children looked at each other. It is not pleasant to be laughed at, especially for something you have never done—but they both felt that Mrs. Pearce would have laughed quite as much, or even more, if they had told her what it really was they had wanted the barrow for. “Oh, don’t go on laughing,” said Mavis, creeping close to Mrs. Pearce, “though you are a ducky darling not to be cross any more. And you won’t tell, will you?” “Ah, well—I’ll let you off this time. But you’ll promise faithful never to do it again, now, won’t you?” “We faithfully won’t ever,” said both children, earnestly. “Then off you go to your beds, and I’ll dry the things when your Ma’s out. I’ll press ’em tomorrow morning while I’m waiting for the boys to come in.” “You _are_ an angel,” said Mavis, embracing her. “More than you are then, you young limbs,” said Mrs. Pearce, returning the embrace. “Now off you go, and get what sleep you can.” It was with a feeling that Fate had not, after all, been unduly harsh with them that Mavis and Francis came down to a very late breakfast. “Your Ma and Pa’s gone off on their bikes,” said Mrs. Pearce, bringing in the eggs and bacon, “won’t be back till dinner. So I let you have your sleep out. The little ’uns had theirs three hours ago and out on the sands. I told them to let you sleep, though I know they wanted to hear how many shrimps you caught. I lay they expected a barrowful, same as what you did.” “How did you know they knew we’d been out?” Francis asked. “Oh, the way they was being secret in corners, and looking the old barrow all over was enough to make a cat laugh. Hurry up, now. I’ve got the washing-up to do—and your things is well-nigh dry.” “You _are_ a darling,” said Mavis. “Suppose you’d been different, whatever would have become of us?” “You’d a got your desserts—bed and bread and water, instead of this nice egg and bacon and the sands to play on. So now you know,” said Mrs. Pearce. * * * * * On the sands they found Kathleen and Bernard, and it really now, in the bright warm sunshine, seemed almost worthwhile to have gone through last night’s adventures, if only for the pleasure of telling the tale of them to the two who had been safe and warm and dry in bed all the time. “Though really,” said Mavis, when the tale was told, “sitting here and seeing the tents and the children digging, and the ladies knitting, and the gentlemen smoking and throwing stones, it does hardly seem as though there _could_ be any magic. And yet, you know, there was.” “It’s like I told you about radium and things,” said Bernard. “Things aren’t magic because they haven’t been found out yet. There’s always been Mermaids, of course, only people didn’t know it.”