His eye stayed on the epitaph of the lost child.

He remembered soberly all that he knew about this dead child, and then a sudden flash of perception seemed to come to him.

This sweet water-nymph, on whom for the moment he had turned his back, must be the baby's soul grown to a woman in the water.

He turned again, eager not to lose a moment of the maiden's presence, half fearful that she had vanished, but she was there yet, lying still as before.
Of course, it was impossible that she should be the sea-wraith of the lost child; but, then, it was wholly impossible that she should be, and there she was, smiling at him, and Caius saw in the dark eyes a likeness to the long-remembered eyes of the child, and thought he still read there human wistfulness and sadness, in spite of the wet dimples and light laughter that bespoke the soulless life of the sea-creature.
Caius stooped on the rock, putting his hand near the water as he might have done had he been calling to a kitten or a baby.
"Come, my pretty one, come," he called softly in soothing tones.
The eyes of the water-nymph blinked at him through wet-fringed lids.
"Come near; I will not hurt you," urged Caius, helpless to do aught but offer blandishment.
He patted the rock gently, as if to make it by that means more inviting.
"Come, love, come," he coaxed.

He was used to speak in the same terms of endearment to a colt of which he was fond; but when a look of undoubted derision came over the face of the sea-maiden, he felt suddenly guilty at having spoken thus to a woman.
He stood erect again, and his face burned.