it doing there by itself on the 'ock, and c'ying, and c'ying, and c'ying?"
"Maybe it's lost, little Sunlocks."
"Then why doesn't somebody go and tell its father?"
And the innocent face was full of trouble.
The sun went down, the twilight deepened, the air grew chill, the waters black, and Stephen was still pulling round the head.
"Father, where does the night go when we are asleep?"
"To the other world, little Sunlocks."
"Oh, I know—heaven."
Stephen stripped off his guernsey and wrapped it about the child. His eyes shone brightly, his mouth was parched, but he did not flinch. All thoughts, save one thought, had faded from his view.
As he came by Port Mooar the moon rose, and about the same time the light appeared on Point of Ayre. A little later he saw the twinkle of lesser lights to the south. They were the lights of Laxey, where many happy children gladdened many happy firesides. He looked around. There was not a sail in sight, and not a sound came to his ear over the low murmur of the sea's gentle swell. "Now is the time," he thought. He put in his oars, and the boat began to drift.
But no, he could not look into the child's eyes and do it. The little one would sleep soon, and then it would be easier done. So he took him in his arms and wrapped him in a piece of sailcloth.
"Shut your eyes and sleep, little Sunlocks."
"I'm not s'eepy, I'm not."
Yet soon the little lids fell, opened again and fell once more, and then suddenly the child started up.
"But I haven't said my p'ayers."
"Say them now, little Sunlocks."
Then lisping the simple words of the old Icelandic prayer, the child-voice, drowsy and slow, floated away over the silent water—
"S'eeping or waking, verily we
To God alone belong;
As darkness walks, and shadows flee,
We sing our even-song."
"There's another verse, little Sunlocks—another verse."
