Nary Crowe had long abandoned her; and having bitter knowledge of the way she had once spent his earnings, he himself gave her nothing now. But suddenly a dark thought came, and he hurried home, thrust his hand into the thatch where he had hidden his savings, and found the place empty.
That was the day to do it, he thought; and he took little Sunlocks and washed his chubby face and combed his yellow hair, curling it over his own great undeft fingers, and put his best clothes on him—the white cotton pinafore and the red worsted cap, and the blue stockings freshly darned.
This he did that he might comfort the child for the last time, and also that he might remember him at his best. And little Sunlocks, in high glee at such busy preparations, laughed much and chattered long, asking many questions.
"Where are we going, father? Out? Eh? Where?"
"We'll see, little Sunlocks; we'll see."
"But where? Church? What day is this?"
"The last, little Sunlocks; the last."
"Oh, I know—Sunday."
When all was ready, Stephen lifted the child to the old perch across his shoulders, and made for the shore. His boat was lying aground there; he pushed it adrift, lifted the child into it, and leapt after him. Then taking the oars, he pulled out for Maughold Head.
Little Sunlocks had never been out in the boat before, and everything was a wonder and delight to him.
"You said you would take me on the water some day. Didn't you, father?"
"Yes, little Sunlocks, yes."
It was evening, and the sun was sinking behind the land, very large and red in its setting.
"Do the sun fall down eve'y day, father?"
"It sets, little Sunlocks, it sets."
"What is sets?"
"Dies."
"Oh!"
The waters lay asleep under the soft red glow, and over them the sea-fowl were sailing.
"Why are the white birds sc'eaming?"
"Maybe they're calling their young, little Sunlocks."
It was late spring, and on the headland the sheep were bleating.
"Look at the baby one—away, away up yonder. What's
