“An’ Mester Barnes bein’ a lovin’ feyther, an’ mindful o’ what his poor missus ’ud wish,” continued the widow, “’ull help ye to start, my lad—for stock an’ that. Ah, ye may be sure we’s both do the best we can for our own flesh an’ blood.” Luke smiled broadly on his future stepfather, and gripped his sunburnt hand, murmuring heartily: “’Tis very well done o’ you, I’m sure. Very handsome—ah, that ’tis.” Maimie had crossed over to Mrs Wharton and was uttering on her side profuse expressions of gratitude and satisfaction. Jim Barnes himself, however, looked slightly puzzled, and presently took occasion to murmur surreptitiously in Mrs Wharton’s ear: “Ye had the last word arter all, Lizzie, my dear!” THE MISSUS’S CHAIR WHEN the congregation of St Mary’s Church, Thornleigh, came gaily forth on Christmas Day, pausing in the porch and on the steps, and almost blocking the gateway as they exchanged cheery greetings and good wishes with friends and neighbours, old Joe Makin loitered behind. He spoke to no one, scarcely venturing to show himself, it would appear, till the merry groups had dispersed and the last gleeful youngster had come clattering down from his place in the choir, and scampered off to join the family circle. When all at last was still, Joe came slowly out, pulling his hat-brim down over his eyes, and looking neither to right nor to left. Instead of, however, descending the steps that led to the lich-gate he went hobbling round to the rear of the church, and then paused before one of the graves. The headstone bore the name of Annie, only child of Joseph and Mary Makin, and recorded her death as having taken place at a date full thirty-five years distant. Lower down was another inscription in memory of the aforesaid Mary Makin, who had departed this life, it seemed, but a few months before that very Christmas Day. Joe looked round to assure himself that no one was in sight, and then, stooping stiffly, endeavoured to brush away with his hand the slight sprinkling of snow which had fallen on the little mound. Drawing a pair of scissors from his capacious pocket, he clipped the grass here and there where it had grown rank, muttering to himself the while. “’Tisn’t much harm, I don’t think—nay, it canna be much harm, though it is Christmas Day, just to fettle it up a bit for our Mary. Hoo allus liked everything gradely—eh, that hoo did. Now hoo must have a bit o’ green to mak her know ’tis Christmas—ah, and the little ’un too. Annie shall have a sprig wi’ some pratty berries on’t.” He took from beneath his coat two sprigs of holly, and after some difficulty succeeded in sticking them upright into the half-frozen ground, the larger one at the head of the grave, the smaller, all gay with red berries, at the foot.