She leaned her trembling grey head against the wall, and shut her aching eyes. A phantasmagoria of the beloved home passed swiftly through her mind. She saw it in winter with snow upon the thatch, and long icicles fringing the eaves, all the garden round it sleeping in wintry sleep, and nursing the roots and seeds in its frozen bosom; in spring-time, with the young, fresh green of the lilacs and roses and honeysuckles budding out around it; in summer, almost smothered in blossoms; and in autumn, as she had seen it this morning, dank with rain, but snug and dry as a nest within. Every flower that had bloomed during the last summer, the fruit-trees laden with fruit, the long rows of beans and peas—all seemed to stand up clearly before her eyes, asking if it was possible for them to grow out of that soil under any other care than hers. Then she had visions of herself: a baby crawling over the low door-sill; a little child running in and out with her prattle to the father and mother; a tall girl going to school and winning prizes to take home to them; and then, when Amos came courting, how the click of the garden gate sent her in trembling and blushing to her mother's side. And all the years since—the long stretch of nearly forty peaceful happy years—lived under the old roof, until every lifeless thing had become alive with memories. Not a nail had been knocked in any wall, not a patch put into the thatch, but she knew all about it: and having not much else to think about, she could remember how and when and why each slight change had been made. Joanna did no work that day. She sat still in the little shed, oblivious of cold and damp and hunger, brooding over the terrible letter. She forgot to eat the dinner she had brought with her. One decision only she could come to—to keep her secret as long as she could. Why should Amos and Charlotte suffer as she was suffering, until she had done all she could do? It was hard to go in home that night. She must be her usual self, cheery, and a little talkative, asking trifling questions about what they had done all day, whilst her heart felt breaking at the sight of every familiar object. But she did her best, not daring to complain of any ache or pain, lest Amos should insist upon going out in the continued bad weather. At last, the first fine day, when he could undertake his duty, Joanna found some excuse for going to Norton. She had learned to know the place well while Amos lay ill in the hospital. The agent who had written to her was in his office; and after a little delay she was admitted to see him. He was a busy man, pompous in his manner, and he could see nothing to interest him in a plain, ill-clad country woman, whose homely face was no more eloquent than her words. She had but little language in which to plead for what was a matter of life or death to her.