She walked feebly away, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, and the neighbours had compassion on her, leaving her alone with her grief. The two rooms which formed their new home were in a state of utter confusion. The men who had removed the heavy furniture were putting up the bedstead in the room which must now be bed-chamber, kitchen, and all. A little room at the back, opening on to walls, and chimneys, and roofs, was to be Charlotte's. Joanna set to work at putting things to rights a little; but she was bewildered and confused, and Charlotte, with a tender and gentle voice, told her what to do, as if she had been in the habit of directing household matters. Joanna obeyed her as if in a dream. Amos came in at his usual hour, and gave Charlotte a kiss, as he had done each night ever since she came into the world. Then he looked hesitatingly and shyly at his wife's sad face, and his old arm went round her neck, and her head sank upon his breast. There was something sacred and sacramental in the unwonted caress. It was the first moment of consolation that had come to Joanna, and her face was brighter when she lifted it up. At any rate, she had lost neither Amos nor Charlotte, she said to herself. There was little sleep for any of the three that night. The unaccustomed noises in the street, the closer air, the sense of being in a strange place, all kept them awake. Joanna got up early in the dark Christmas morning, and pottered about with a candle among their littered goods to find the articles necessary for breakfast. "A happy Christmas to you, mother!" called Charlotte from the inner room. A lump rose in Joanna's throat, and for a minute or two she could not bring herself to speak. Fifty-seven happy Christmases had found her in her old home; but now! Then she said in a whisper, "Lord, forgive me!" "A happy Christmas to you, Charlotte!" she called back in a shrill and strained voice. It was a comfortless breakfast amid their disorderly possessions; but Amos kept making light of it, and apologizing, as if in some way it was his fault. As soon as it was ended, he and Joanna went into Charlotte's room to reckon up the presents which had been given to him the day before. He was an old man, and a favourite, and his Christmas boxes amounted to more than five pounds. "But good sake!" he cried suddenly. "I've got a Christmas letter for you, mother, and I shouldn't wonder if there weren't a pretty card or something in it. It's from young Squire Sutton, and it came to me a week ago, but I weren't to speak a word of it till Christmas Day in the morning. Here, Charlotte; it's for your mother, my dear, but you'll read the writin' the easiest." The young Squire began his letter by saying that but for Amos Terry's promptitude in carrying on the letters entrusted to him he would himself have missed the happiness of his life. He had heard the whole story from a friend in the neighbourhood.