“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.
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’s voice, drowsy and slow, floated away over the silent water:—
“‘S’eeping or waking, verily we