She was thirty years of age now, pallid and emaciated, with the pathetic look in her eyes which cripples and deformed people so often have. She looked almost as old as her mother. The mother and daughter had been slowly changing places for the last fifteen years. Charlotte was the adviser now, the head of the little household, the referee to whom every question was brought. She was always brooding over schemes for her father and mother's comfort, and suggesting gently what their actions should be from day to day. Joanna was still young in spirit, apt to act impetuously; occasionally giving way to almost girlish fits of temper, which she confessed and repented of by Charlotte's bedside. It did not seem possible there could ever come a secret between these two. Amos Terry, who was two years older than his wife, had been a rural postman for thirty-seven years. The daily routine of his work had never altered. At six o'clock, summer and winter, he presented himself at the post-office in the town, and received the various letter-bags which he had to convey along a route, the farthest point of which was seven miles away. As it was out of the question for him to return home and walk the same distance again, he remained at this farthest point all day, and hired a small out-building, where he occupied his time profitably in mending the boots and shoes of a considerable circle of customers who valued his careful work. At four o'clock he started homeward, collected the bags he had distributed in the morning, and was timed to be at the post-office again at half-past six, soon enough to make up the evening mail. The old church clock never struck seven before he was at home, going first thing upstairs to his daughter's attic. The sight of her face, wan and drawn as it was with pain, but always lit up with a smile of welcome, was the most precious sight in the world to him. He had never had a secret from her in his life. His whole heart and mind and soul lay open to her as absolutely as it is possible for one human being to be open to another. "I don't think there's anybody in the world as happy as me," said Amos, perfectly convinced of the truth of his assertion, "at least, not one bit happier; they couldn't be." "Not if Charlotte was strong and well?" suggested Joanna, with a sigh. It was she who had let her child fall when a baby. "Maybe I should have gone away and left you," said Charlotte; "it 'ud never have done for me to live idle here. Or I might have been married, you know," she added, with a faint blush and a smile. "Anyhow, it is as the Lord has willed it," Amos answered, "and sometimes I think He'll be weary of me sayin' how happy I am."