It was winter when these words were spoken, half-sadly, half-angrily, by the rector. And all through the following spring and summer he was ailing often; and Easter was always sent for in haste to nurse him. He could find no rest or peace of mind without her. Chrissie, in consequence, was left to run wilder than ever, his grandmother being dead, and his mother frequently away from home. When she had to stay all night at the rectory, he went to sleep in some of the cottages near at hand. The cottage folks made much of him, both for Easter's sake and because they had a settled conviction that he must some day or other inherit his grandfather's heaps of money. That all the old fields, and the ancient house, and the wealth gathered together by two or three generations, should go anywhere except to Chrissie, seemed almost incredible. He was looked upon as too young to pay much attention to what elder folks talked about; but he often heard them speaking of the place as belonging in some way to him. In fact, Chrissie began to look upon his dreaded grandfather himself as his special property. Harvest-time had come: a rich and plentiful harvest, such as opened the hearts of all who possessed golden cornfields. It was splendid weather, too; and there was no stint of good cheer and grand harvest-home suppers in all the farmsteads. Chrissie was in his element, riding triumphantly on the high-piled wagons, or as willingly tugging at the heads of the great horses that drew the heavy loads to the stackyards. He was at every feast except his grandfather's; and even there Christmas, while carving at the head of the table, caught sight of the bright, brown little face peeping wistfully in through the open door. All the village was present, for though Christmas had lost much of his popularity, his old neighbours shrank from offending him by staying away from his harvest-home. Not all, though. It had been the rector's custom to be present at the yearly feast, but this autumn his familiar face and voice were missing, and the mention of his name caused a passing gloom to fall on all faces. "The poor old gentleman's not long for this world," said one of the farmers; "they say Easter's never left him day or night this last week." Christmas Williams' face grew hard and dark at this bold mention of his daughter's forbidden name; but he said nothing. The supper went on, but while they were still singing their harvest songs, a messenger came hurriedly from the rectory, to call Christmas to his old clergyman's deathbed.