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.”

Patiently the child sat, pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of light flashed over the earth.  Day had come, but no chime.

“What can be the matter?” said the anxious mother, as she strained her eyes in the direction of the tower.

What if the old sexton were dead?  The thought took all her strength away.  If death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away?

“Is it almost time?”

“Almost, Jimmy, darling.  Perhaps the old sexton has slept late.”

“Will the bells chime in heaven, mother?”

“Yes, dear, I hope so.”

“Will they ring them for me if—­if—­I—­mother! hark! the bells are ringing!  The good old sexton has gone to the church at last!”

The boy’s eyes glistened with a strange light.  In vain the mother listened.  No sound came to her ears.  All was still as death.

“Oh, how beautiful they sing!” he said, and fell back and died.

Other chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of St. Auburn.

For more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes in vain.  No sound come forth from either bell.

“What can be the matter?” he exclaimed, nervously.  “For seven long years they have not failed to ring out their tones.  I’ll try once more.”  And he did so, vigorously.

Just then the figure of a man stood in the doorway.  It was the owner of the chime.  He had gone to the sexton’s house, not hearing the bells at the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had sought him at the church.

He tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton.

“What can it mean?” he said, as he turned sorrowfully away.

It was a sad Christmas in the pleasant valley.  To have those sweet sounds missing, and on such a day,—­it was a loss to all, and an omen of ill to many.

The next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells.  No defect was perceptible.  They were sound and whole, and no mischief-making lad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues.

The bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast.