EASTER was occupied at the rectory all the next day, and being satisfied that Chrissie would be taken good care of, she gave little thought to him. It had been a sorrowful harvest-time to her, and her future had never seemed quite so dark as now that her best friend was gone, and her father showed himself altogether irreconcilable. But her trust in God was not shaken. Once, for a few minutes, when there came a short interval of leisure, she stood at a window overlooking the churchyard, where every tombstone was as well-known to her as the faces of her neighbours. Then the blank, dark future presented itself to her, and pressed itself upon her. There was no chance of remaining where she was, among the old familiar places, surrounded by the sights and sounds which had filled up nearly all her life. Where was she to be tossed to? What resting-place could she find? It was with a strong effort that she turned away from the dreary prospect. "Take 'no thought for the morrow,'" she said to herself, "'for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" Christmas Williams had never been less master of himself than he was all that day after hearing that the old rector was really gone. He had been his clergyman for nearly forty years, and never had an unfriendly word passed between them, unless he could call his remonstrances on behalf of Easter unfriendly. He wished he had not left him in a rage last night. Yet never had his servants seen Christmas so testy and passionate; until at length, he shut himself up in his own little room. A lad who crept timorously to peep through the lowest corner of the lattice casement reported that the master was sitting with his face hidden by his hands, and the big, strongly-bound family Bible before him. But Christmas was not studying any portion of the printed pages; he had taken it down from the shelf over his old-fashioned desk to pore over the written entries made in his own hand, of Easter's birth on Easter Sunday twenty-eight years before, and of her mother's death the same evening. He had given Easter her last chance, and she had spurned it; it was time to take her name out of the Bible. He had resolved to tear the page out of the book, but he could not destroy the record of his child's birth without destroying that of his wife's death. Which must he sacrifice—his resolve to wreak his resentment against Easter, or his lingering tenderness for the memory of his wife?