“Are your wits gone,” said his mother; “what has become of the goat?”
“Oh-h-h—I sold it for—for—a cake!”
As soon as he had said it he knew what it was to sell the goat for a cake.
“What can the little goat think of you, to sell him for a cake?” said his mother.
The boy was so sorry that he said to himself he would never again do anything wrong. He would never cut the thread on the spinning-wheel, he would never let the goats out of the fold, he would never go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay, and he dreamed that the little goat had gone to heaven and that he sat alone on the roof and could not go to it.
Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear. He started up. “Bay-ay-ay!” it said. It was the little goat come back.
“What, have you come back?” he cried. He jumped up, took it by the forelegs, and danced with it as if it were a brother. He tickled it and pulled its beard, and set off with it to the hut to tell his mother the good news.
Just then he heard someone behind him; it was the little girl.
“Oh, so it was you brought it back?” said he.
“Grandfather would not let me keep it,” said she; “he is waiting near for me.”