He uttered the last words in a mournful tone, and watched her as she went sadly on her lonely way, until the hawthorn hedge hid her form from his sight. She was as nearly as possible like his own child to him; he had watched her growing up from day to day through all the changes of childhood and girlhood. He was a kindly old man, and loved to be at peace and on good terms with every one. And here was a brangle in the very centre of his parish, making desolate the house he frequented most. Besides, he could recall a time when he had felt the worth of a courageous faith like that which had sent Easter out into a world she knew nothing of, in simple reliance upon God and implicit obedience to the Saviour whose name she had taken. She was a Christian. Was he a Christian, too? The old rector thought of his self-indulgences, his country pleasures, and his neglected people; but he felt his heart heavy and dull. He could not lift it out of the miry clay in which it had grovelled so long. Easter's absence made a greater difference to Christmas Williams than he would ever have owned in words. He had never let her toil laboriously with her own hands, as her mother and grandmother had done before her; he had been too choice of her for that. Easter had been like his favourite garden, where no common fruit or flowers were suffered to grow. He had delighted in her dainty, winsome ways, as he had delighted in his splendid show of roses, and of peaches growing ripe in the sun. He missed her sorely. There was no pretty, smiling face blooming opposite to him when he sat down to his now solitary meals. There was no light footstep tripping about the house; no sweet voice singing gaily or plaintively the old songs he had taught her himself. She was never to be seen leaning over the terrace-wall, watching for his coming along the lane. He had no one to buy some pretty trifle for when he went to market. Christmas had not foreseen the dreary change. Possibly, if he had foreseen it, he would never have uttered the oath he had bound upon his conscience. All the neighbourhood took notice of the gloom that had fallen upon Christmas and his once pleasant house. He had always been a masterful man, but he grew morose and tyrannical as time passed on. His servants, who had been used to stay long periods with him, were constantly quitting his service, and carried away with them stories of his harsh and unreasonable conduct. The home gradually became dull and dirty, with no mistress to look after the maids. It was less and less tempting to gather about the large fireplace of an evening, as had been the practice for generations past.