"Now, Master Gerard, you've known me all your life," answered Amos, "and you might almost as well ask if the sun 'll set at the right time. I have come and gone on this road nigh on forty year, and never missed yet. Nobody ever gave me a letter for life or death afore; and it 'ud be odd indeed if I missed tonight." As Amos trudged on the sun went down behind the sweet round outline of one of the low hills, and the sky looking nearer than in the summer, seemed about to close, like brooding wings, over the quiet woods. Two or three robins were chirping cheerfully among the thinning leaves, which came down with a rustle as the cool evening breeze blew up the valley from the sea. A profound peace rested on all the silent lanes and meadows he traversed, which would have been too solemn if he had not loved it so profoundly. But all in a moment a tumult of children's voices scattered the silence, and Amos saw a troop of terrified little ones running towards him and screaming for help. Looking beyond them he saw that one of their playfellows had fallen into the stream, which was carrying the child swiftly away towards the sea. He had no time to deliberate; there was not a moment to lose. In another minute the drowning child would be abreast of the spot where he stood. He laid his bags down safely on the bank, and waded into the shallow river, which, a few minutes ago, was running like a thread of gold between its banks in the radiance of the setting sun. There was no great risk in what Amos was doing. The river, unless it was swollen by rain, was never more than breast-high. He caught the child in his hands as the current bore it past him, and carried it in safety to the bank. But there was no one in all the band of its companions old enough to take care of the little creature. The child's head had struck against a stone, and it lay a heavy load in his arms. He must carry it himself to the nearest cottage, which was almost a mile away. With his letter-bags slung across his shoulders, and his clothes heavy with water, Amos could not make very rapid progress. The cottagers were not very willing to take in a strange child, belonging to nobody but gipsies, and he had some trouble to get them to relieve him of his charge. More than an hour was gone before he could hasten on his ordinary way. And he did hasten. In spite of his wet clothes and sodden boots, he pushed on along the darkening lanes, and across the dusky meadows, not losing a moment. It was always Charlotte's custom during the summer to be at the window about the time he was due, to give him a smile as he passed by; and when the evenings closed in early she placed a candle on the window-sill, that its feeble glimmer should show him a welcome. The candle was shining through the diamond panes, but he hardly saw it as he rushed past. What Amos did see was the world of anxiety in the young squire's face, as he said, "You are never too late, I suppose?"