As the evening darkened over the moor, and the Hooting Carn was dim in the distance, the light in the Pail grew exceedingly beautiful, and took all manner of shapes and colours, and made the room where Joan sat as lovely as the dear Small People’s Country, Ninnie-Dinnie said—how she knew, it did not occur to her foster-mother to inquire.
‘’Tis magic!’ cried the woman, looking round the room, ‘an’ I don’t understand it one bit.’
‘P’r’aps,’ said the child softly, ‘it is the dear Little People’s way of showing how grateful they feel for your kindness to your little Ninnie-Dinnie.’
‘I haven’t been kinder than I ought,’ began Joan; ‘and—’tis raining, surely,’ she broke off, as a trickle of water fell on her ear. ‘’Tis queer, too! There’s no sign of wet weather in the sky.’
The child went to the window and looked out.
‘There is a tiny stream of water coming down the road,’ she said. ‘I believe ’tis the little brown Pool coming for its sunbeams.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ cried Joan.
‘It is,’ said the little maid, looking out again, ‘and it has made itself into a dark ring outside our door.’
As she was speaking, a rippling voice broke out:
‘Give me back my light! give me back my sunbeams!’