"But we all have to give our notes," responded a low, sweet-voiced bell.
"That's just what I mean to change. We are all weary of our notes, and need change."
"But we should have to be recast," said the low-toned bell, sadly.
"Most certainly we should. I should like the fun of that. Now how many of you will be silent in the morning when the old sexton comes to ring us?"
"I will," answered the lowest-toned bell, boldly.
"If part of us are silent and refuse to ring, of what use will the rest be?" said one who had remained quiet until then. "For a chime all of us are needed," she added, sadly.
"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.