"A thief!" muttered Christmas, between his teeth. It was the first word he had ever spoken to the lad. This boy of Easter's, this grandson of his own, was a petty thief already! He thought of the urchin he had sent to jail a month ago for precisely the same offence. But Chrissie was so like himself when he was a boy! He could recollect plucking the fruit without stint from these very trees, while his grandfather looked on with delight at his dexterity and courage in climbing to the highest boughs, and pointed out to him the ripest pears and rosiest apples. Chrissie ought to be doing the same under his eye, not standing there like a culprit, sobbing and trembling before him. Yet how could he keep his word and make a difference between this lad and the one just out of jail for the self-same thing? Besides, now he could make Easter feel; perhaps bring her to her senses, if anything would do that. She had been reckless of his displeasure so far; this would bring her on her knees before him, ready to yield her will to his. Without uttering a word to the terrified child, he entered his garden, and seized him by the arm, not roughly, but firmly. He had never touched him before, and his hand, firm as it was, trembled. Chrissie lifted his brown, tearful face to him, and submitted without any attempt at resistance. Silently his grandfather led him along the pleasant garden paths, across the deep lawn, and through the green churchyard, under the window of the room where the dead body of the rector lay, to that dismal and neglected corner, overgrown with nettles and docks, where the crib was built. It was an old, small, strongly-built place, with windows closely barred, and a door thickly studded with iron nails. It looked prepared for the blackest criminals, rather than for the starved and poverty-stricken poachers and the frightened urchins who had been its usual occupants. There was a heavy padlock on the outer door, and this Christmas slowly unlocked, holding his grandson between his arms and knees, as his hands were busy at their task. "Grandfather," sobbed the boy, "don't let mother know; it 'll break her heart!" Christmas could not speak a word, for his tongue was dry and parched; but Chrissie walked in through the dark door unbidden. He listened to it being closed and fastened securely behind him. This place had been a terror and dread to him from his earliest days, when he had now and then strayed with baby feet to the moss-grown step, and heard the wind moan through the keyhole of the old lock, which had been in use before the padlock. He stepped over the threshold with the courage of despair. No hope of softening the heart of his grandfather entered his own, and he made no effort to do it. If only his mother might not know!