It never occurred to him that the young child was already frightened almost to death. He had seen him only as bold and daring, and he could not understand a nature that was full of vague fancies and imaginations, and superstitions fed on the village traditions. He fitted the key into the padlock before he had quite settled what he was about to do; and at that instant Chrissie's wild and agonized shriek rang through the air. The sound almost paralyzed him. How he managed to turn the key, he could not tell. He rushed into the utter darkness of the cell, where he could see nothing and hear nothing. "Chrissie!" he cried. "Chrissie, my little man! I'm here; thy grandfather, my lad. I'm not angry with thee any longer. Speak to me! I've come to take thee home; and thou shalt have as many apples as thee pleases. Oh, Chrissie! Whereabouts art thou? Rouse up and speak to me." There was neither voice nor sob to answer him or to guide him. Groping about in the darkness, he found the little unconscious body of the child lying in a heap on the stone floor. He lifted it up tenderly, and pressed it again and again to his heart. He felt no longer any kind of doubt as to what he would say or do. If he could only hear the boy's voice, he would throw to the winds all his cherished anger and resolution, and take his grandson and his daughter home again. He carried Chrissie into the churchyard, speaking to him imploringly to wake up and give him some sign of life. As he looked up to the attic window where the light was burning, he saw Easter's head leaning out. The cry that had frightened him had startled her also; and she was listening for it again. Christmas called to her. "Easter, come down," he cried, in a lamentable voice; "your boy is dead, perhaps; and it's your father killed him. Oh, Chrissie! My little grandson, rouse thee, and speak only one word!" In another minute Easter was down and beside them, chafing the cold hands of her boy, and stroking his face, and calling him with her tenderest voice. But still he lay like one dead on his grandfather's breast. "Easter," said her father, with a deep-drawn breath, "I found the child stealing apples in my garden, and I dealt with him as I've dealt with others. I locked him up in the crib, and left him alone there. I was about to let him free again when I heard that terrible shriek, and I found him like this. Easter, can you forgive me?" "Father," she answered, in a mournful, solemn voice, "I forgive you with all my heart." "What! If the child dies?" asked Christmas, trembling and faltering as he uttered the words. "Yes," she said; "I know you did not mean to do it. But oh! He will not die. My little Chrissie! My only little child! Pray God he may not die!" "Kiss me, Easter," said her father. With a strange sense of solemnity and sorrow, Easter kissed her father's face, with the lifeless body of her child lying between them. "Come home, Easter, come home!" he said, sobbing.