"My good woman," he said at last, rather angrily, "I have no time for further discussion. I am instructed to sell the property; and £150 has been offered for it. If you can make me a better offer, I am willing to take it. If not, you must be out before Christmas." It was like listening to a death-sentence. The house was going to be sold! Could she offer more than £150? She might as well think of buying one of the crown jewels. Leave before Christmas! Why, that was only six weeks off; and Amos and Charlotte had no thought of such a thing yet. She went home stunned, not knowing what to do. It was as if Fate had put a dagger in her hand, and bade her pierce the hearts of her two beloved ones. She did her best to shake off the feeling of doom which was crushing her; and for some days she went about her daily work with a Spartan-like cheerfulness. But the bitterest anxiety and despondency were gnawing at her heart. The only relief was when Amos was obliged to stay at home, and she could trudge along the wintry lanes, unseen by eyes that loved her homely face and watched it. But the time came at last when she could no longer delay to strike the blow which would wound Amos and Charlotte as her own heart was wounded. It was necessary to seek some other roof to shelter them; for December was come, and on Christmas Eve they must leave the old home. "Amos," she said, in a tremulous voice one cold, dark night, after she had come in from her long tramp, "my cousin's dead." "Ah! Dear heart!" he answered her. "And did he die happy?" She had never thought of that. "I don't know," she cried, bursting into tears, "but oh! Amos, we shall have to lose our old place!" He had been stirring up the fire to make a cheerful blaze, but now he sat himself down beside her on the oak settle, and put his old arm round her, drawing her closely to him. He was trembling too with the suddenness of the shock her words had given to him. The firelight played upon their wrinkled faces, and upon the hard and withered hands which clasped each other so fast. Both of them were silent for a few minutes. Amos knew full well the anguish that filled his wife's heart. "Let us go and tell Charlotte," he said at last. It was one of her bad days, and she had not left her bed. A patchwork counterpane, made by Joanna, covered her, and patchwork curtains sheltered her from the draught of the window. Her aching head and pallid face lay on a down pillow, with a linen slip spun and woven by Joanna's mother. The attic looked like a home that had been long and intimately occupied. Joanna sank down on her knees, with a deep moan, beside the bed; whilst Amos, in a faltering voice, told the sad news briefly.