The postmaster was standing out on the pavement, looking down the quiet street, and the gaslight was turned low in the office, usually so busy a scene till the time for closing, when Amos staggered, breathless and worn out, up to the familiar door. "Why, Amos, my man!" exclaimed the postmaster. "However is this? We waited till the last moment, and the mail has gone down to the station these ten minutes. Hark! There's the whistle! The train's off!" Amos reeled up against the door, as if struck by a gun-shot. He was too late! It was some minutes before he could tell his story; and the postmaster, with a good deal of sympathy and approbation, tried to console him. "Nobody could blame you, Amos," he said. "I must report the matter to headquarters, of course, and there will be some inquiry about it, no doubt. Ten to one there is no letter of importance in your bags." "Oh, sir!" cried Amos. "Is there nothing can be done? Think if there is anything can be done." "Well," he answered, after a moment's pause, "you might catch the express at Norton Junction. It's perhaps worth trying, but I'm afraid the department will not allow the expenses. We'll see about that. A light cart and a good horse would run you into Norton in two hours." "I'll try for it," said Amos. "Please send word to my wife and Charlotte, or they'll be fretting all night." It was an anxious night to Joanna and Charlotte, even though the postmaster called himself to tell them all that had happened, and to praise Amos to them. The praises were very gratifying; but the two women could not help thinking of him driving through the chill October night in his wet clothing. How sharp the air felt, when they opened the window to see if there was any rain or fog! The hours wore slowly away. Joanna kept up a good fire, and had the kettle boiling, and put the old brass warming-pan ready to warm the bed as soon as Amos came in cold and famished. But no one came. "Mother," said Charlotte, towards four o'clock in the morning, "of course they'd never drive straight there and back again. The poor horse 'ud have to rest, you know." "Ay, dear love," answered Joanna; "but Amos might come home by the mornin' mail, and that's just due, I'm thinkin'." Still the time crept on slowly, and there was no click of the garden gate, and no step coming down the gravel walk. At the first dawn Joanna looked out on the garden, with its tall hollyhocks and sunflowers still bearing a little blossom; but all appeared dull, and grey, and gloomy to her sleepless, aching eyes. If anything should happen to Amos, even the Garden of Eden would be a desert to her.