A few days before Christmas the postmaster handed a foreign letter to Amos when he came at six o'clock in the morning for the bags. He read it, as Joanna had read hers, in his cobbler's shed. It came from Madeira, and was written by young Squire Sutton, whose runaway marriage he had unconsciously helped. There were only a few words, for in it was enclosed a letter to Joanna, which was not to be opened or spoken of till Christmas Day. Amos put the letter carefully aside, smiling a little sadly to himself as he thought he had a secret as well as Joanna. But he did not dwell upon his secret much. The dreaded crisis had come, and his old home was being dismantled. These few days were full of slow, suppressed anguish to Joanna, as one by one she carried the smaller treasures of her home to the dreary lodgings in the town. Each night when Amos came in some familiar household goods were missing, and their empty places stared him eloquently in the face. Forebodings of the immediate future began to peer at him through the shadow of the coming event. He almost forgot he had any secret, and he ceased to smile when it crossed his mind. Christmas Eve came at last—the dreaded day. Heaven had not interfered to prevent their exile. Only the heavier pieces of furniture remained to be moved—the oak settle from the hearth; the old four-post bedstead on which they had slept so peacefully all their married life, on which Joanna's forefathers had died, and on which she and Amos had expected to lie down and die as peacefully as they had slept. The tall clock in the corner, which had stood there over a hundred years, must be taken down. It was to Joanna as if she saw the roof-tree give way when she watched their old friends touched by strange hands. Every stroke of a hammer stunned her; every creak of the old furniture pierced her to the heart. The doctor came in the middle of the day, and kindly carried Charlotte away in his carriage to their new abode. Joanna was left alone, for she had insisted upon Amos going this last day of all upon his round. He would come back rich with Christmas boxes; but what were any gifts to Joanna just then? She watched the cart-load of heavy goods start off, and then she looked round with bitter despair at the dismantled rooms. She went outside and paced mournfully round the beloved garden, dearer to her than any other spot on earth. It was a clear wintry day, with a blue sky, and a white frost which silvered over every leaf of the evergreen bushes and every bare branch and twig of the trees. A fringe of icicles hung from the eaves, sparkling like diamonds in the sun. But there was no smoke rising from the chimney, no face at any window, no sign of habitation. The cottage seemed to feel itself deserted. Such forlornness had not befallen it for uncounted years. It and Joanna were going to part, and it had already a forsaken look, which brought a burst of bitter tears to her old eyes.