He was a tall, stout man, dressed in a rough fishing suit, and wearing an oilskin cap on his head.  His hair was very thick and curly and fair; his cheeks were tanned and red; his teeth, when he smiled, were very even and white.  Rachel thought he must be quite old, because there was a good deal of gray mixed with his fair hair.

“Are you watching for the mermaids?” he said.

Rachel nodded gravely.  From any one else she would have scrupulously hidden such a thought.

“Yes, I am,” she said.  “Mother says there is no such thing as a mermaid, but I like to think there is.  Have you ever seen one?”

The big man sat down on a bleached log of driftwood and smiled at her.

“No, I’m sorry to say that I haven’t.  But I have seen many other very wonderful things.  I might tell you about some of them, if you would come over here and sit by me.”

Rachel went unhesitatingly.  When she reached him he pulled her down on his knee, and she liked it.

“What a nice little craft you are,” he said.  “Do you suppose, now, that you could give me a kiss?”

As a rule, Rachel hated kissing.  She could seldom be prevailed upon to kiss even her uncles—­who knew it and liked to tease her for kisses until they aggravated her so terribly that she told them she couldn’t bear men.  But now she promptly put her arms about this strange man’s neck and gave him a hearty smack.

“I like you,” she said frankly.

She felt his arms tighten suddenly about her.  The blue eyes looking into hers grew misty and very tender.  Then, all at once, Rachel knew who he was.  He was her father.  She did not say anything, but she laid her curly head down on his shoulder and felt a great happiness, as of one who had come into some longed-for haven.

If David Spencer realized that she understood he said nothing.  Instead, he began to tell her fascinating stories of far lands he had visited, and strange things he had seen.  Rachel listened entranced, as if she were hearkening to a fairy tale.  Yes, he was just as she had dreamed him.  She had always been sure he could tell beautiful stories.

“Come up to the house and I’ll show you some pretty things,” he said finally.

Then followed a wonderful hour.  The little low-ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he took her, was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of his roving life—­things beautiful and odd and strange beyond all telling.  The things that pleased Rachel most were two huge shells on the chimney piece—­pale pink shells with big crimson and purple spots.

“Oh, I didn’t know there could be such pretty things in the world,” she exclaimed.

“If you would like,” began the big man; then he paused for a moment.  “I’ll show you something prettier still.”

Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else when he began; but she forgot to wonder what it was when she saw what he brought out of a little corner cupboard.  It was a teapot of some fine, glistening purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons with gilded claws and scales.  The lid looked like a beautiful golden flower and the handle was a coil of a dragon’s tail.  Rachel sat and looked at it rapt-eyed.