"That's just the point," remarked the leader. "If all will be still, none
will be blamed: the people will think we are worn out and need making
over. So we shall be taken down from this tower where we have been so
long, and stand a chance of seeing something of the world. For _my_
part, I am tired to death of being up here, and seeing nothing but this
quiet valley."

A murmur ran from one to another, till all agreed to be silent on the
morrow, though many of the chime would have preferred to ring as usual.

The man who had presented the bells to the church returned at midnight,
after a long journey to his native valley, bringing with him a friend,
almost solely to hear the beautiful chime on the morrow.

As he passed the church, on his way home, the murmuring of the bells
was just ceasing. "The wind moves them--the beautiful bells," he said.
"But to-morrow you shall hear how sweet they will sing," he added,
casting a loving glance up to the tower where hung the bells.

A few miles from the valley, close to the roadside, stood a cottage
inhabited by a man and wife whose only child was fast fading from the
world.

"Raise me up a little, mother," said the dying boy, "so I can hear the
Christmas chime. It will be the last time I shall hear them here, mother.
Is it almost morning?"

The pale mother wiped the death-dew from his brow and kissed him,
saying, "Yes, dear, it's almost morning. The bells will chime soon as
the first ray comes over the hills."