Loving him or hating him, Chrissie was never out of his grandfather's thoughts. He took note of every change in him, as he shot up rapidly from infancy to the age when lads like him, little lads of eight, were sent to work in the fields. He knew the exact day when Chrissie went out for his first day's work, and he watched him from afar off, plodding up and down the heavy furrows of the ploughed land to scare away the birds from the springing corn. He saw how footsore and weary the little fellow was as he trudged homewards through the dusky lanes, too tired to whistle and sing, as he was wont to do. Better than Easter herself, he knew how old Chrissie was when he began to walk, or jump, or run, and he had seen what Easter did not see—the first time Chrissie ever climbed a tree. The lad's childhood brought back his own to him. He could look back upon the days when he had gone nutting under the same hedgerows, and fishing for minnows in the little brown river. Chrissie would stand patiently an hour at a time on his own favourite spots, waiting for the long-hoped-for nibble. To watch the boy was like reading over again an old, half-forgotten story. But there was no softening of his heart towards Easter. Many a time he wished the lad never crossed his path, or that he was a sickly, puny child, such as his father had been before him, who 'stayed at home, tied to his mother's apron-strings, singing hymns, and making believe he was a special favourite with God Almighty.' CHAPTER IV His Own Way OLD Widow Evans died, and her small annuity died with her. What was Easter to do, encumbered as she was with a big, restless, daring, bold son, eight years of age? She could not bear to think of leaving him to the care of the neighbours, and going out to service again. Yet it would be hard work for some years to keep herself and him in anything like decent poverty. Her cottage, however, was built on the glebe land, and therefore belonged to the rector, who offered it to her rent-free as long as he should live. But the rector was growing old and very feeble, being partially exhausted by those habits of self-indulgence which he had not been strong enough to break off. For a long while now his favourite vices had clung about him like a heavy chain, which he could not escape from, however sorrowfully his spirit chafed and fretted against its bondage. "Easter," he said, "I want to have you near at hand when I'm lying on my deathbed. I cannot alter my habits now; but I long to be gone away from them, and I shall want to have you near me when my last hour comes, I know." "Why cannot you alter them now?" she asked. "God will help you." "It's too late; too late," he answered. "If I'd only been wise in time, Easter! But I'm a foolish old man now."