There was very little to disturb that happiness. Ambition was unknown to them. No religious or political questions perplexed their humble souls. Care was a long way off, for they had more than enough for their simple wants. They needed neither fine clothes, nor dainty food, nor costly furniture. A few old-fashioned books, gathered together by Joanna's forefathers, were enough for their mental requirements. The "Pilgrim's Progress" and "Holy War," the "Vicar of Wakefield," the "Fool of Quality," and "Paradise Lost," were ranged on a little hanging shelf in Charlotte's attic, and with their Bible and a hymn-book provided amply for Joanna and Amos, whilst more modern books were now and then lent to Charlotte by friendly visitors from the town. They had beautified their little home, and cultivated their garden according to their own fancy; and if three wishes had been given to them, they would have been puzzled to fix upon one. If Joanna knew and loved her house almost as her own soul, Amos also knew and loved the route he traversed daily in all weathers. More than six hundred times a year he passed the same cottages, tramped along the same lanes between high hedgerows, and looked up to the same constantly changing sky overhead. He loved it ardently though dumbly, possessing no language that could express his feelings. He was fond of singing, but he sang somewhat as the birds sing, that know only a strain or two. Amos knew only a few hymns, and he generally sang them through again and again as he went to and fro, until the cottagers on his route knew when he was drawing near, and hastened to their doors or windows to give him a friendly nod. It was getting well on In October. The low-lying hills were covered with coppices of beech-trees, now wearing the loveliest tints of autumn. Down each valley ran a little rivulet, joining a broad and rapid but shallow stream, which hurried along a stony channel to the sea. Amos seldom went home without taking some flower or leafy branch for Charlotte; and he was gathering a cluster of crimson berries from a climbing bryony, when a young man, the eldest son of Squire Sutton, of Sutton Hall, where he had just called for the letter-bag, came running quickly, though cautiously, after him. He did not shout or call to Amos; and he was almost out of breath when he reached him. "Amos," he gasped, "here's a letter. It's a matter of life or death to me. Let me put it into father's bag." He had brought the key with him, and Amos watched him unlock and lock the bag again. He had recovered his breath now, and he looked at Amos with a world of anxiety in his face. "You are never too late, I suppose?" he said.