not be the thing to
frighten a new Vicar with. "A feeling has somehow got abroad in the
parish (leastways with a many of its folk) that the putting-up of its
bells brought ill-luck, and that whenever the chimes ring out some
dreadful evil falls on the Monk family."

"I never heard of such a thing," exclaimed the Vicar, hardly knowing
whether to laugh or lecture. "The parish cannot be so ignorant as that!
How can the putting-up of chimes bring ill-luck?"

"Well, your reverence, I don't know; the thing's beyond me. They were
heard but three times, ringing in the new year at midnight, three years,
one on top of t'other--and each time some ill fell."

"My good man--and I am sure you are good--you should know better,"
remonstrated Mr. Grame. "Captain Monk cannot, surely, give credence to
this?"

"No, sir; but his sister up at the Hall does--Mrs. Carradyne. It's said
the Captain used to ridicule her finely for it; he'd fly into a passion
whenever 'twas alluded to. Captain Monk, as a brave seaman, is too bold
to tolerate anything of the sort. But he has never let the chimes play
since his daughter died. He was coming out from the death-scene at
midnight, when the chimes broke forth the third year, and it's said he
can't abear the sound of 'em since."

"That may well be," assented Mr. Grame.

"And finding, sir, year after year, year after year, as one year gives
place to another, that they are never heard, we have got to call 'em
amid ourselves, the Silent Chimes," spoke the clerk, as they turned to
leave the church. "The Silent Chimes, sir."

Clinking his keys, the clerk walked away to his home, an ivy-covered
cottage not a stone's-throw off; the clergyman lingered in the
churchyard, reading the memorials on the tombstones. He was smiling at
the quaintness of some of them, when the sound of hasty footsteps caused
him to turn. A little girl was climbing over the churchyard-railings (as
being nearer to her than the entrance-gate), and came dashing towards
him across the gravestones.

"Are you grandpapa's new parson?" asked the young lady; a pretty child
of ten, with a dark skin, and dusky-violet eyes staring at him freely
out of a saucy face.

"Yes, I am," said he. "What is your name?"

"What is yours?" boldly questioned she. "They've talked about you at
home, but I forgot it."

"Mine is Robert Grame. Won't you tell me yours?"

"Oh, it's Kate.--Here's that wicked Lucy coming! She's going to groan at
me for jumpi