The spring was advancing, and brought its soft hues even to the barren moors of Gethin, and bathed its gray rocks in sunshine.  There was much to see that was worth seeing, and who so fit as Harry to point out these objects of attraction with which she had been familiar from her childhood?  They strolled along the beach to Polwheel, and she snowed him how the harbor there had been silted up through the wrath of the mermaids, or “merry maids,” as she called them, still (under favorable circumstances) sometimes seen sitting on the slate cliff ledges beneath the clear blue sea.  Far from ridiculing her superstitions, he led her on to talk of them; he did not much mind what she talked about so long as he could look at her and listen.

“But why were the Polwheel mermaids so cruel, Harry?  I always imagine them bright and beautiful beings, with golden hair almost as long as yours, and with nothing to do but to comb it.”

“That is so, when they are let alone,” said Harry, simply; “but even the weakest creatures love revenge, and will get it if they can.”

“And quite right too,” interrupted Richard; “but for fear of that the strong would be more uncivil even than they are.”

“Well, a mermaid was once cruelly treated by a Polwheel man—­he fell in love with her, and deserted her—­and then her sisters choked up the harbor bar.”

“But how did he come to court the mermaid?  That must have been difficult; though, if I saw you sitting under water yonder, I should certainly dive, and try.”

“You would have no breath to make me pretty speeches then,” said Harry, demurely.  “This mermaid was, however, a changed child.  A Polwheel woman was bathing her infant in the pool yonder beneath that arched rock, when it suddenly gave a cry of joy, and leaped from her arms into the sea.  She thought it was drowned, but it came up the next instant more beautiful and bright than ever.  She did not herself know but that it was her own child, but there were old folks in the town who knew that it was in reality a mermaid’s changeling.  She grew up to be a lovely woman, and the Squire of Polwheel at that time—­for his race has died out since—­fell in love with her; he treated her very ill, and she died broken-hearted, at Gethin, and was buried in our church-yard, where I can show you the tomb.”

“And did no punishment overtake the scoundrel Squire?”

“Yes.  After a great revel one night, he was returning home by the sands, and in the moonlight beheld a beautiful lady sitting by this same pool.  She was so like his dead love to look at that he was frightened at first, but she smiled and beckoned to him, and then, clasping him in her arms, leaped into the sea, and drowned him; and in the storm that arose that night the merry maids filled up the harbor.”

“That was hard upon Polwheel,” observed Richard, “though the Squire only got what he deserved.  He must have been a bad lot.”