t how my breath has that power I cannot
tell. It was put into it when I was made. That is all I know. But really
I must be going about my work."

"Ah! the poor ship! I wish you would stop here, and let the poor ship
go."

"That I dare not do. Will you stop here till I come back?"

"Yes. You won't be long?"

"Not longer than I can help. Trust me, you shall get home before the
morning."

In a moment North Wind was gone, and the next Diamond heard a moaning
about the church, which grew and grew to a roaring. The storm was up
again, and he knew that North Wind's hair was flying.

The church was dark. Only a little light came through the windows, which
were almost all of that precious old stained glass which is so much
lovelier than the new. But Diamond could not see how beautiful they
were, for there was not enough of light in the stars to show the colours
of them. He could only just distinguish them from the walls, He looked
up, but could not see the gallery along which he had passed. He could
only tell where it was far up by the faint glimmer of the windows of
the clerestory, whose sills made part of it. The church grew very lonely
about him, and he began to feel like a child whose mother has forsaken
it. Only he knew that to be left alone is not always to be forsaken.

He began to feel his way about the place, and for a while went wandering
up and down. His little footsteps waked little answering echoes in the
great house. It wasn't too big to mind him. It was as if the church knew
he was there, and meant to make itself his house. So it went on giving
back an answer to every step, until at length Diamond thought he should
like to say something out loud, and see what the church would answer.
But he found he was afraid to speak. He could not utter a word for fear
of the loneliness. Perhaps it was as well that he did not, for the sound
of a spoken word would have made him feel the place yet more deserted
and empty. But he thought he could sing. He was fond of singing, and
at home he used to sing, to tunes of his own, all the nursery rhymes he
knew. So he began to try `Hey diddle diddle', but it wouldn't do. Then
he tried `Little Boy Blue', but it was no better. Neither would `Sing a
Song of Sixpence' sing itself at all. Then he tried `Poor old Cockytoo',
but he wouldn't do. They all sounded so silly! and he had never thought
them silly before. So he was quiet, and listened to the echoes that came
out of the dark cor