s 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
seafowl 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 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 and 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