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."