“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, the twilight deepened, the air grew chill, the water 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.”