“A child of light, a radiant lass,
And cheerful as the morning air.”

They were all three laughing at Ted’s wit when his mother and the other ladies came upon them.

“You seem very happy, children,” said she.

“Oh ses,” said Ted. “Mabel has been telling us such a lovely story. It’s not finnied yet. She’s going to tell the rest in the garden at home. Oh, I am so happy. It’s been such a sprendid day.”

He began half humming to himself in the excess of his delight.

“Ted wishes somebody would sing a song,” he said.

His mother glanced at Mabel. Poor Mabel’s face grew very red again. It would be worse than telling a story.

“If we all sang together,” she said timidly, “I wouldn’t mind trying to begin.”

So in a minute or two her clear young voice sang out-like a lark’s it seemed to mount higher and still higher, gathering strength and courage as it grew, and then softly dropping again as if to fetch the others, who joined her in the old familiar chorus of the simple song she had chosen-“Home, sweet home.”

Ted listened entranced, and his little voice here and there could be distinguished. But suddenly, as Mabel stopped and a momentary silence fell on them all, he turned to his mother, and throwing himself into her arms, burst into tears.

“Muzzer,” he said, “I can’t bear it. It’s too pitty,” and though his mother and Mabel soothed the excited little fellow with gentle words and caresses, there were tears in more eyes than Ted’s as they all thanked Mabel for her singing.

It was the next day that they had the rest of the story. The children were all in the garden together, not far from Ted’s favourite “bridge.” They could hear the babble of the little brook as it chattered past in the sunshine, and now and then the distant cry of a sea-bird would sound through the clear air, making Cheviott prick up his ears and look very wide-awake all of a sudden, though in reality, being no longer in the first bloom of youth, he was apt to get rather drowsy on a hot afternoon.

“We’se all ready, Mabel,” said Ted, settling himself down comfortably in his favourite rest at her side. “Now go on p’ease. I can see the top of the mountain kite nice from here, and zen I can sink I’ll see the old diant poking his head out,” evidently the child’s fear of the mountain was fast becoming a thing of the past, and Percy felt quite pleased.

“Well,” began Mabel, “I was telling you that Sunny had lived with her old grandfather and grandmother since she was quite little. They were very kind to her, but they were very poor, almost the poorest of all in the forest. And yet their cottage never seemed quite so dull and sad as the others. How could it, when there was always Sunny’s bright head flitting about, and her merry voice sounding like a bird’s?

“The old people looked at her half with pleasure and half sadly.

“‘It can’t last,’ the old man said one day, when the little girl was running and jumping about in her usual happy way.

“The old woman knew what he meant without his explaining, and she nodded her head sadly, and just then Sunny came flying into the cottage to show them some flowers she had actually found in the forest, which, you see, was the greatest wonder possible, for there were almost never any flowers to be seen. And Sunny told them how she had found them in a little corner where the trees did not grow quite so thick, so that more light could get in. And when she saw how surprised the old people were, she looked at them rather strangely, and some new thoughts seemed to be awaking in her mind, and she said, ’Grandfather, why aren’t there more flowers in the forest, and why am I the only little girl that laughs and sings? Why does everybody look sad here? I can remember a little, just a little, about the other country I lived in before I came here. People used to laugh and smile there, and my mother had bright hair like mine, and father too was not sad till after mother had gone away and we came to this dark land. Why is it so dark, and why do you all look so sad?’

The old man told her it was all for want of the sun, the blessed sun, he called it, and Sunny thought about his words a great deal. And bit by bit she got the whole story from him, for he was one of the few remaining old people who knew the reason of their misfortunes. And Sunny thought and thought it over so much that she began to leave off dancing and laughing and singing as she used, so that her poor grandfather and grandmother began to be afraid that the sadness of the forest was at last spoiling her happy nature, and for a while they were very sorry about her. But one day she told them what she had in her mind. This was what she said to them-

“’Dear grandfather and grandmother, I cannot bear to see the sadness of the poor people here, and I have been thinking if nothing can be done. And a few nights ago I had a strange dream. I dreamt that a beautiful lady stood beside me and said, ’Go, Sunny, and have no fear. The giant will not harm you.’ And since then it has come into my mind that I might win back the sunshine for our poor neighbours, and for you too, dear grandfather and grandmother, for you are not so very old yet, if you will let me go to see if I can melt the giant’s hard heart.’

“Sunny was standing in front of the old couple, and as she spoke, to their amazement, a sudden ray of sunshine crept in through the little rough window of the cottage and fell softly on her bright head. Her grandfather looked at her grandmother, and her grandmother looked at her grandfather. They didn’t know how to speak-they were so surprised. Never, since they were quite, quite little children had they seen such a thing. And they whispered to each other that it must be a magic sign, they must let the child go. I think it was very good and kind of them to let her go, the only thing they had to cheer them. The tears rolled down their poor old faces as they said good-bye to her, not knowing if they would live to see her return. But they said to each other, ’We have not very many years to live. It would be very wrong of us to lose the chance of life and happiness for all the poor forest people just to keep our bit of sunshine to ourselves.’ And so they let her go, for they were good old people.”

“Ses,” said Ted, “zem was very kind. But how dedful for Sunny to have to go to the diant. Did her go all alone, Mabel?”

“Yes, all alone. But she wasn’t frightened. And somehow her grandfather and grandmother weren’t frightened for her either. They had a feeling that she had to go, and so she did. She set off the very next morning. Her grandfather explained the way to her, for old as he was he had never forgotten the days when the passage through the giant’s mountain was left free and open, so that there was no need for the forest people to spend all their lives in the gloom and shade.

“Sunny walked quietly along the dark paths among the trees. She didn’t dance and skip as usual, for she felt as if all of a sudden she had grown almost into a woman, with the thought of what she had to do for her poor neighbours. And as she looked about her, she felt as if she had never before quite noticed how dark and chill and gloomy it was. She had a good way to walk, for since the closing of the passage the people had moved farther and farther into the forest. They had grown afraid of the giant, and were glad to get as far from him as they could, for there was no good to be got by staying near him. So Sunny walked on, past the cottages she knew, where she nodded to the people she saw, but without speaking to them, which was so unlike her usual merry way that they all looked after her in surprise and wondered what had come over the little girl. And one or two of them shook their heads and said sadly that she was getting to be like the rest of them. But Sunny walked on, farther and farther, now and then smiling quietly to herself, and her bright little head shining in the darkness almost as if the sun was lighting it up. She went a good way, but there was nothing new or different. It was always the dark forest and the gloomy trees. But at last she saw, close to her, behind the trees, the dark sides of the great mountain, and she knew that she must be near the closed-up door.”

“Oh!” said Ted, “wasn’t her afraid of bears?”

“No,” said Mabel, “she wasn’t afraid of anything. She went quietly up to the door and stood before it. It was barred and barred with iron, and it was so long since it had been opened that the ivy and those sorts of plants had grown all over it, creeping round the iron bars. It looked as if it hadn’t been opened for a hundred years, and I daresay it hadn’t been. But Sunny knew what to do. She hunted about among the leaves and branches till she found a little silver knob-her grandfather had told her about it; and the queer thing was that though the iron bars were quite rusted over so that you wouldn’t have known what they were, the little silver knob was still bright and shining as if it had been cleaned every day always.”

“Wif plate-powder,” said Ted, who was very learned about such matters, as he was very fond of watching the servants at their work.

“Yes,” said Mabel, “just as if it had been cleaned with plate-powder. Well, Sunny pressed this little knob, and a minute or two after she heard a clear tinkling bell. That was just what her grandfather had told her she would hear, so she stood quite still and waited. In a little while she seemed to hear a sound as of something coming along the passage, and suddenly the top part of the door-at least it was more like a window cut in the door-opened, and a voice, though she could not see anybody, called out, ‘Have you come to stay?’ This too was what her grandfather had told her she would hear, so she knew what to say, and she answered ‘Yes.’ Then the voice said again, ‘At what price?’ and Sunny answered, ‘Sunshine for the forest.’ But her heart began to beat faster when the door slowly opened and she saw that she must enter the dark passage. There was no one to be seen, even though the voice had sounded quite near, so Sunny just walked on, looking about her, for gradually as she went farther, either her eyes grew used to the darkness, or a slight light began to come, and in a few minutes she saw before her a very, very high staircase. It went straight up, without turnings or landings, and the steps were quite white, so she saw them plainly though the light was dim, and as there was nowhere else to go, she just went straight on. I can’t tell you what a long time she seemed to keep going upstairs, but at last the steps stopped, and before her she saw another door. It wasn’t a door like the one down below, it was more like a gate, for it was a sort of a grating that you could see through. Sunny pressed her face against it and peeped in. She saw a large dark room, with a rounded roof something like a church, and in one corner a very old, grim-looking man was sitting. He had a very long beard, but he didn’t look so awfully big as Sunny had expected, for she knew he must be the giant. He was sitting quite still, and it seemed to Sunny that he was shivering. Any way he looked very old and very lonely and sad, and instead of feeling frightened of him the little girl felt very sorry for him. She stood there quite still, but though she didn’t make the least noise he found out she was there. He waved his hand, and the barred door opened and Sunny walked in. She walked right up to the giant and made him a curtsey. Rather to her surprise he made her a bow, then he waved his hands about and moved his lips as if he were speaking, but no sound came, and Sunny stared at him in surprise. She began to wonder if he was deaf and dumb, and if so how could she explain to him what she had come for?

“‘I can’t understand what you are saying, sir,’ she said very politely, and then, to her still greater surprise, the waving of his hands and the moving of his lips seemed to succeed, for in a very queer deep voice he answered her.

“‘What do you want?’ he said. ’I sent my voice downstairs to speak to you, and he has been loitering on the way, lazy fellow, all this time. There are no good servants to be had nowadays, none. I’ve not had one worth his salt since I sent my old ones back to Ogreland when they got past work. What do you want?’

“‘Sunshine for the forest people.’

“That was all Sunny said, and she looked at the grim old giant straight in the face. He looked at her, and went on shivering and rubbing his hands. Then he said, with a frown,

“’Why should they have sunshine? I can’t get it myself, since I’m too old to get up to the top there. Sunshine indeed!’ and then he suddenly stretched out his hand to her and made a grab at her hair, screaming out, ’Why, you’ve got sunshine! Come here, and let me warm my hands. Ugh! that’s the first time I’ve felt a little less chilly these hundred years,’ and Sunny stood patiently beside him and let him stroke her golden hair up and down, and in a minute or two she said quietly,

“’Will you unfasten the door, good Mr. Giant, and let the poor people through to the other side?’

“The giant still kept hold of her hair. ’It would be no good cutting it off-the sunshine would go out of it,’ Sunny heard him saying to himself. So she just said again quietly, ’Will you unfasten the door, good Mr. Giant?’

“And at last he said, ’I’ll consider about it. Your hair’s getting cold. Go upstairs,’ and he nodded his head towards a door in the corner of the room, ‘go upstairs and fetch some sunshine for me, and come down again.’

“But Sunny wouldn’t stir till she had got something out of him. And she said for the third time,

“’Will you unfasten the door, good Mr. Giant, if I go upstairs to please you?’

“And the giant gave her a push, and said to her, ’Get off with you, you tiresome child. Yes, I’ll open the door if you’ll go and bathe your hair well, and then come down to warm my hands.’

“So Sunny went upstairs. This stair wasn’t like the other. It was a turny, screwy stair that went round and round itself, for you see it was near the top of the mountain and there wasn’t so much room as down below. Sunny felt rather giddy when she got to the top, but she got all right again in a minute when she pushed open the little door she found there and came out into the sunlight. It was so lovely, and remember, she hadn’t seen sunshine, even though some of the brightness had stayed with her, since she was a very little girl. You have no idea how pretty it was up there, not gloomy at all, and with the beautiful warm sunshine pouring down all round. Sunny was very pleased to warm herself in it, and then when she looked down over the side of the mountain and saw the dark tops of the forest trees, she was still more pleased to think that soon her poor friends would have a chance of enjoying it too. And when she thought that her hair had caught enough sunshine to please the giant she called down through the screwy staircase, ’Have you opened the door, Mr. Giant?’ And when the giant said, ‘Come down and I’ll tell you,’ she answered, ‘No, Mr. Giant, I can’t come till you’ve opened the door.’ And then she heard him grumbling to himself, and in a minute she heard a rattling noise, and she knew the door was opened, and then she came down. She had settled with her grandfather that if she didn’t come straight back, he would send some of the people to watch for the door being opened, so she knew it would be all right, for once the giant had agreed to open it, he couldn’t shut it again-that was settled somehow, some magic way I suppose, the story didn’t say how. So then Sunny, came downstairs again, and the giant stroked her hair up and down till his poor old hands were quite warm, and he grew quite pleased and good-natured. But he wouldn’t let Sunny go away, and she had to stay, you see, because the top-door, the one like a gate, was still shut up. And any way she didn’t want to be unkind to the giant. She promised him that she would come back to see him every day if he liked if only he would let her go, but he wouldn’t, so she had to stay. I don’t know how long she stayed. It was a long time, for the story said she grew thin and white with being shut up in the giant’s cave and having no running about. It was worse than the forest. The only thing that kept her alive was the sunshine she got every morning, for there was always sunshine at the top of the mountain, and then, too, the comfort of knowing that the poor people were enjoying it too, for when she was up on the top she could hear their voices down below, as they came to the door. Day by day she heard their voices grow merrier and brighter, and after a while she could even hear the little children laughing and shouting with glee. And Sunny felt that she didn’t mind for herself, she was so glad to think that she had done some good to her poor friends. But she got paler and thinner and weaker-it was so very tiring to stand such a long time every day while the giant stroked the sunshine out of her golden hair to warm his withered old hands, and it was so terribly dark and dull and cold in the gloomy cavern. She would hardly have known how the days went or when was day and when was night, but for the giant sending her upstairs every morning. But one morning came when she could not go; she got up a few steps, and then her strength went away and she seemed to get half asleep, and she said to herself that she was going to die, and she did not know anything more. She seemed to be dreaming. She fancied the giant came to look for her, and that his old face grew sad and sorry when he saw her. And then she thought she heard him say, ’Poor little girl, I did not mean to hurt her. I have done harm enough. Sunny, forgive me. The giant will do you and your people no more harm. His day is over.’ Then she really did sleep, for a long time I fancy, for when she woke up she could not think where she was. She thought at first she was on the top of the mountain, it seemed so beautifully bright and warm. She sat up a little and looked about her, and she couldn’t think where she was, for on one side close to her, she saw the dark trees of the forest that she knew so well, and on the other, smiling green fields and orchards and cottages with gardens filled with flowers, just the sort of country her grandfather had told her he remembered when he was a child on the other side of the great hill. It was just as if the mountain had melted away. And, just fancy, that was what had happened! For in a little while Sunny heard voices coming near her, all talking eagerly. It was the people of the forest who had found out what had come to pass, and they were all hurrying to look for Sunny, for they were terribly afraid that the giant had taken her away to Ogreland with the mountain. But he hadn’t, you see! And Sunny and all the forest people lived all their lives as happy as could be-they were happier even than in the old days the grandfather and grandmother remembered, for not only were they free to leave the dark forest and enjoy the sunlight as often as they liked, but the sunshine now found its way by all the chinks and crannies among the branches into the very forest itself.”

“And did they never hear anything more of the giant?” asked Percy.

“No,” said Mabel, “only in hot summer days sometimes, when the sun was beating down too much on the fields and gardens, the people of that country used to notice a large soft gray cloud that often came between them and the sunshine, and would stay there till the great heat grew less. This cloud seemed always the same shape, and somehow, Sunny, remembering her vision of the giant, thought to herself that the cloud was perhaps he, and that he wanted to make up for his long cruelty. And the children of the forest having heard her story used to laugh when they saw the cloud, and say to each other, ’See, there is the giant warming his hands.’ But Sunny would say softly in a whisper, ’Thank you, Mr. Giant.’

“And though it is a very, very long time since all that happened, it has never been quite forgotten, and the people of that country are noted for their healthy happy faces, and the little children for their rosy cheeks and golden hair.”

Mabel stopped.

“It is a very pretty story,” said Percy. “Are there more like it in the book where you read it?”

Mabel was just going to answer, when her attention was caught by Ted.

“I do believe he’s asleep,” she said softly, for Ted had curled himself up like a dormouse in his little nest at her side. But just then the two-legged dormouse gave a funny chuckle, which showed that whether he had been asleep or not, he certainly was so no longer.

“What are you laughing at, Teddy?” said Percy.

“I were just sinking,” said Ted, “what a silly boy Ted were to be afraid of mountains-Ted would like to go up to the very, very top,” he went on valorously. “Ted wouldn’t mind a bit-not,” with a prudent reservation, “not if thoo and Mabel was wif me.”