THE STAYING POWER OF SIR ROHAN.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 32, 17 December 1897, Page 37 (Supplement)

THE STAYING POWER OF SIR ROHAN.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

By Frank R. Stockton

During the winter in which I reached my twenty-fifth year, I lived with my mother's brother, Dr. Alfred Morris, in Warburton. a small country town, and I was there beginning 1 the practice of medicine. I had been graduated in the spring, and my uncle earnestly advised me to come to him and act as his assistant, which advice, considering the fact that he was an elderly man, and that 1 might hope to succeed him in his excellent practice, was considered good advice by myself and my family. At this time I practised very little, but learned a great deal, for as I often accompanied my uncle on his professional vif.it*, I could not have taken a better post-graduate course. I had an invitation to spend the Christmas of that year with the Colling woods, who had opened their country house, about twelve miles from Warburton, for the entertainment of a holiday house-party. I had gladly accepted the invitation, and on the day before Christmas I went to the livery stable in the village to hire a horse and sleigh for the trip. At the stable I met •• Uncle Beamish." who had also come to hire a conveyance. Uncle Beamish, as he was generally called in the village, although I am sure he had no nephews or nieces in the place, was an elderly man who had retired from some business, I know not what, and was apparently quite able to live upon whatever income he had. He was a good man, rather illiterate, but very shrewd. Generous in good works, I do not think he was fond of giving away money, but his services were at the call of all who needed them. I liked Uncle Beamish very much, for he was not only a good story-teller, but he was willing to listen to my stories, and when I found he wanted to hire a horse and sleigh to go to the house of his married sister, with whom he intended to spend Christmas, and that his sister lived on Upper Hill turnpike, on which road the Collingwood house was situated, I proposed that we should hire a sleigh t igether. "That will suit me," said Uncle Beamish. ''There couldn't have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Less than half a mile after you turn into the turnpike, you pass my sister's house, then you can drop me and &o on to the Collingwood's which I should say isn't more than three miles furder." The arrangement was made, a horse and sleigh ordered, and early in the afternoon we started from Warburton. The sleighing was good, but the same could not be said of the horse ; he was a big roan, powerful and steady, but entirely too deliberate in action. Uncle Beamish, however, was quite satisfied with him. '■ What you want when you are going to take a journey with a horse," said he, '' is stayin' power. Your fast trotter is all very well for a mile or two. but if I have got to go into the country in winter jfive me a horse like this." I did not agree with him, but we jogged along quite pleasantly until the afternoon grew prematurely dark and it began to snow. " Now," said I. giving the roan a useless cut. '• what we ought to have is a fast horse, so that we may get there before there is a storm." '• No, Doctor, you're wrong," said Uncle Beamish. '■ What we want is a strong horse that will take us there whether it storms or not, and we have got him. And who cares for a little snow that won't hurt nobody." I did not care for snow, and we turned up our collars and went as merrily as people can go to the music of blowly jingling sleighbells. The snow began to fall rapidly, and, what was worse, the wind blew directly in our faces, so that sometimes my eyes were so plastered up with snow-flakes that I could scarcely see how to drive. I never knew snow to fall with such violence , the roadway in front of us, as far as I could see it, was soon one unbroken stretch of white from fence to fence. '• This is the big storm of the season," said Uncle Beamish. " and it is a good thing we started in time, for if the wind keeps blowin', this road will be pretty hard to travel in a couple of hours." In about half an honr the wind lulled a little and I could get a better view of our surroundings, although I could not see very far through the swiftly descending snow. " I was thinkin'," said Uncle Beamish, '"that it might be a good idee, when we get to Crocker's place, to stop a little, and let you warm your fingers and nose. Crocker's is ruther more than halfway to the pike." " Oh, I do not want to stop anywhere," I replied, quickly : '• I am all right." Nothing was said for some time and then Uncle Beamish remarked : '• I don't want to stop any more than you do, but it does seem strange that we ain't passed Crocker's yit ; we could hardly miss his house, it is so close to the road. This horse is slow, but I tell you one thing, Doctor, he's improvin' ; he is goin' better than he did. That's the way with his kind ; it takes them a good while to get warmed up, but they keep on gettin' fresher instead of tireder." The big roan was going better, but still we did not reach Crocker's, which disappointed Uncle Beamish, who wanted to be assured that the greater part of his journey was over. '• We must have passed it," he said, l< when the snow was so blindin'." I did not wish to discourage him by saying that I did not think we had yet reached Crocker's, but I believed I had a much better appreciation of our horse's slowness than he had. cut.. Again the wind began to blow in our faces, and the snow fell faster, but the violence of the storm seemed to encourage our horse, for bis pace was now greatly increased.

'' That's the sort of beast to have." exclained Uncle Beamish spluttering as the snow blew in his mouth ; "he is gettin' his spirits up just when they are most wanted. We must have passed Crocker's a good while ago, and it can't be long before we set to the pike ; and it's time we was there, for it's darkenin'." On and on we went, but still we did not reach the pike. We had lost a great deal of time during 1 the first part of the journey and, although the horse was travelling so much better now, his pace was below the average of good roadsters. "When we get to the pike," said Uncle Beamish, "you can't miss it. for this road doesn't cross it ; all you've got to do is to turn to the left, and in ten minutes you will see the liirhts in my sister's house ; and I'll tell you. Doctor, if you would like to stop there for the night, she'd be mighty glad to have you.'* '• Much obliged." replied I, " but I shall go on. it's not late yet and I can reach the Collingwoods in good time." We now drove on in silence, our horse actually arching his neck as he thumped through the snow. Drifts had begun to form across the road, but through these he bravely plunged. " Stayin' power is what we want, Doctor," exclaimed Uncle Beamish : " where would your fast trotter be in drifts like these, I'd like to know .' We got the right horse when we got this one, but I wish we had been goin' this way all the time." It grew darker and darker, but at last we saw not far in front of us a light. '• That beats me," said Uncle Beamish, '• I don't remember no other house so near the road. It can't be we ain't passed Crocker's yit. If we ain't got no furder than that, I'm in favour of stoppin". I'm not afraid of a snowstorm, but I ain't a fool nuthur. and if we haven't got furder than Crocker's it will be foolhardy to try to push on through the dark and these big drifts which will be gittin' bigger." I did not give it up so easily. I greatly wished to reach my destination that night. But thei'ewere three wills in the party, and one of them belonged to the horse. Before I had any idea of such a thing the animal made a sudden turn, too sudden for safety, passed through a wide gateway, and after a few rapid bounds which, to my surprise, I could not resti'ain, he stopped suddenly. " Hello ! " exclaimed Uncle Beamish, peering forward, '• here's a barn-door," and he immediately began to throw off the fur robe that covered our knees. '■ What are you going to do ? " I asked. "I'm goin' to open the barn-door and let the horse go in," said he, '■ he seems to want to. I don't know whether this is Crocker's barn or not, it don't look like it but I may be mistaken. Anyway we will let the horse in, and then go to the house. This ain't no night to be travellin' any furder, Doctor, and this is the long and the short of it. If the people here ain't Crocker*. I guess they are Christians ! " I had not much time to consider the situation, for while he had been speaking. Uncle Beamish had waded through the snow, and finding the barn-door unfastened, had slid it to one side. Instantly the horse entered tho dark barn, fortunately finding nothing in its way. '• Xow.' said Uncle Beamish. '• if we can get somethin' to tie him so that he don't do no mischief, we can leave him here, and go up to the house."' I carried a pocket lantern, and quickly lighted it. '■ By George ! " said Uncle Beamish, as I held up the lantern, " this ain't much of a barn, it's no more than a wagon house ; it ain't Crocker's — but no matter — we'll go up to the house. Here is a hitchin' rope.'' We fastened the horse, threw a robe over him, shut the barndoor behind us. and slowly made our way to the back of the house, in which there was a lighted window. Mounting a little portico we reached a door, and were about to knock, when it was opened for us. A woman, plainly a servant, stood in a kitchen lighted and warm. '• Come right in," she said, '" I heard your bells. Did you put your horse in the barn I " " Yes," said Uncle Beamihh, " and now we would like to see " '• All right," interrupted the woman, moving toward an inner door. - Just wait here for a minute ; I'm going right up to tell her." "I don't know this place," said Uucle Beamish, as we stood by the kitchen stove, '■ but I expect it belongs to a widow woman." '• What makes you think that ? " I asked. '• 'Cause she said she was goin' to tell her. If there had been a man in the house she would have gone to tell hint." In a few moments the woman returned. " She says you are to take off your wet things, and then go into the sitting-room. She'll be down in a minute." I looked at Uncle Beamish, thinking it was his right to make explanations, but, giving me a little wink, he began to take off his overcoat. It was plain to perceive that Uncle Beamish desired to assume that a place of refuge would be offered us. " It's an awful bad night," he said to the woman, as he sat down to take off his Arctic overshoes. " It's all that," said she. "'You may hang your coats over them chairs ;it won't matter if they do drip on this bare floor. Now, then, come right into the sitting-room." In spite of my disappointment, I was glad to be in a warm house, and hoped we might be able to stay there. I could hear the storm beating furiously against the window-panes behind the drawn shades. There was a btove in the sitting-room, and a large lamp. " Sit down," said the woman. " she will be here in a minute." " It strikes me," said Uncle Beamish, when we were left alone, '• that somebody is expected in this house, most likely to spend Christmas, and that we are mistook for them, whoever they are." '• I have the same idea," I replied, '• and we must explain as soon as possible." " Of course we will do that," said he, '• but I can tell you one thing : whoever is expected ain't comin', for they can't get here. But we've got to stay here to night, no matter who comes or doesn't come, and we've got to be keerf ul in speaking to the woman of the

house. If she is one kind of a person, wo can offer to pay for lodgin's and horse-feed ; but if she is another kind, we must steer clear of mentionin' any pay, for it will make her mad. You had better leave the explainin' business to mo.' 1 I was about to reply that I was more than willing to do so, when the door opened and a person entered — evidently the mistress of the house. She was tall and thin, past middle aye. and plainly dressed. Her pale countenance wore a defiant look, and behind her spectacles blazed a pair of dark eyes, which, ai'fcer an instant's survey of her visitors, wei'e fixed steadily upon me. She made but a step into the room, and stood holding the door. We both rose from our chairs. '" You can sit down again." she said sharply to me, '• I don't want you." '• Now. sir," she continued, turning- to Uncle Beamish, " please come with me." Uncle Beamish gave a g lance of surprise at me. but he immediately followed the old lady out of the room, and the door was closed behind them. For ten minutes, at least, I sat quietly waiting to see what would happen next ; very much surprised at the remark that had been made to me, and wondering at Uncle Beami^h's protracted absence. Suddenly he entered the room and closed the door. "Here's a go,'" said he, slapping his leg', but very gently; '■ we're mistook the worse kind, we're mistook for doctors."' '• That is only half a mi-take," said I. •• What is the matter. and what can I do .' "' •• Nothin'," said he quickly. ■• that is. nothin" your own self. Just the minute she got me outside that door she began pitchin" into you. • I suppose that's young Dr. (J lover.' said she. I told her it was, and then she went on to say. givin' me no chance to explain nothin', that she didn't want to have anything to do with you. that she thought it was a shame to turn people's houses into pauper's hospitals for the purpose of teaching medical student ■* : that she had heard of you. and what she had heard she hadn't liked. All this time she had kept goin' upstairs and I follerin' her. and the fust thing I knowed she opened a door and went into a room and I went in after her, and there, in a bed. was a patient of some kind. I was tuk back dreadful, for the state of the case came to me like a flash. Your uncle had been sent for and I was mistook for him. Now. what to say was a puzzle to me and I began to think pretty fast. It was an awkward business to have to explain things to that sharpset old woman. The fact is I didn't know how to begin and was a good deal afraid besides, but she didn't give me no time for considerin'. ' I think it's her brain,' said she, • but perhaps you'll know better. Catherine. unco\ er your head ! ' and with that the patient turned over a little and uncovered her head, which she had had the sheet over. It was a young woman, and she gave mo a good look. but she didn't say nothin'. Now I «v/v in a state of mind. ' "Of course-you must have been," I answered. •• Why didn't you tell her that you were not a doctor, but that I was. It would have been easy enough to explain matters ; she might have thought my uncle could not come and he had sent me, and that you had come along for company. The patient ought to be attended to without delay." '• She's got to be attended to." said Uncle Beamish. •■ or else there will bo a row and we'll have to travel — storm or no storm . but if you had heard what that old woman said about young doctor^, and you in particular, you would know that you wasn't goin' to have anything to do with thi* case, at least you wouldn't show in it. But I've got no more time tor talkin' ; I came down here on business. When the old lady said 'Catherine, hold out your hand ! ' and she held it out. I had nothin' to do but step up and feel her pulse. I know how to do that, for I have done a lot ot nussin' in my life, and then it seemed nat'ral to a^k her to put out her tongue, and when she did it 1 gave a look at it and nodded my head. 'Do you think it is her brain ' ' said the old woman, halt whisp'Tin". 'Can't say anything about that, yit.' said I. • 1 must go downstairs and get the medicine case. The lu-t thing to do is to gi\e her a draught, and I will bring it up to her a-- soon as it is mixed. You have got a pocket medicine case with you. haven't you .' ' " Oh. yes,"' said I. •• it is in my overcoat." '"I knowed it." said Uncle Beamish. "An old doctor niiuht- go vis-itin' without his medicine case, but a young one would be .sure to take it along, no matter \\ here he wa» guiu". Now you gel it. please, quick." '■ My notion is."' said he. when I returned from the kitchen with the case, '" that you mix somethin' that might soothe her a little, it she has got anything the matter \\ ith her brain, and what won't hurt her if she hasn't ; and then, when 1 take it up to her. you tell me what symptoms to look lor. I can doit. I ha\e spent nightlooking for symptoms. Then when I come down and report, you might send her up somethia' that would keep her from get tin' any wuss till the doctor can come in the moinin'. for he am t comin here t -night." "A very good plan." .said I. "Now. what can I gi\e her. What is the patient's age .' " '•Oh, her age don't matter much." said Uncle Beamish impatiently : "she may be twenty, more or le-s. and any mild stun 1 will do to begin with." ' - I will give her some sweet spiiits ot nitre.'' said I. taking out a little vial. " Will you ask the sen ant tor a glass of water and a teaspoon .' " •'Now, then," said I, when I had quickly prepared the mixture "she can have a teaspoonful of this and another in ten minutes. and then we will see Avhether we w ill go on with it or not." "And what am I to look for .' ' said he. " In the first place," >aid I. producing a clinical thermometer "you must take her temperature ; you know how to do that ' " "Oh, yes," said he, "1 have done it hundreds of times; bh« must hold it in her mouth five minutes."' •'Yes, and while you are wuiting," I continued, "'you must try to find out, iv the first place, if there are. or have been, any signs ol delirium. You might ask the old lady, and besides, you may be able to judge for yourself."

'• I can do that." said he, " I have seen lots of it." " Then, again," said I, *■ you must observe whether or not her pupils are dilated — you might also inquire whether there had been any partial analysis or numbness in any part of the body ; these things must bo looked for in brain trouble. Then you can come down, ostensibly to prepare another prescription, and when you have reported, I have no doubt I o.xa give you something which will modify, or I should say " '• Hold hjr whero she is till morninV said Uncle Beamish ; ■■ that is what you mean. Now, then, give me that thermometer and the tumbler, and when I come down agin, I reckon you can lit her out with a prescription just as goo.l as anybody."' He hurried away, and I sat down to consider. I was full of ambition, lull of enthusiasm tor the practice of my profession. I would have been willing to pay largely for the privilege of undertaking an important case, by myself, in which it would depend upon me whether or not I should call in a consulting 1 brother. So far, in the cases I had undertaken, a consulting 1 brother had always called himself in ; that X 1 had practised in hospitals or with my uncle. Perhaps it might be found necessary, notwithstanding- all that had been .said against me. that I should go up and take charge of this case. I wished I had not forgotten to ask the old man how he had found the tong ue and pul<e. In less than a quarter of an hour. Uncle Beamish > returned. " Well." said I, quickly. " what are the symptoms ' " •• I'll give them to you."' said he. taking- his seat. " I'm not in such a hurry now, because I told the old women I would like to wait a little and see how that fust medicine acted. The patient spoke to me this time ; when I took the thermometer out ot her mouth, she says. 'You are comin' up agin, Doctor ?' speaking 1 low and quickish, as if she wanted nobody but me to hear." •• But how about the symptoms .' "' said I, impatiently. "Well."' he answered, "in the fust place her temperature is ninety -eig-ht and a half, and that's about nat'ral. I take it." •■Yes," I said, "but you didn't tell me about her tong-ue and pulse.'' •• There wasn't nothin' remarkable about them,"' said he. •• All ot which means," I remarked. " that there is no fever ; but that is not at all a necessary accompaniment of brain derangements. How about the dilatation of her pupils .' " •• There isn't none,'' haid Uncle Beamish, " they are ruther squinched up if anything- ; and as to the delirium, I couldn't see no signs of it, and when I asked the old lady about the numbness, she taid she didn't believe there had been any." '• Xo tendency to shiver, no disposition to stretch .'" '• Xo." said the old man. " no chance for quinine."' '• The trouble is," said I. standing before the stove, and fixing* my mind upon the case with earnest intensity, " that there are so few symptoms in brain derangement. If I could only get hold of something tangible— — "' •• It I was you." interrupted Uncle Beamish," '• I wouldn't try to get hold of nothin". I would just give her somethin' to keep her where she is till mornin". If you can do that, I'll guarantee that any good doctor can take her up and go on with her to-morrow."' Without noticing the implication contained in these remarks, I continued my consideration of the case. •• If I could get a drop of her blood." said I. •• Xo. no ! " exclaimed Uncle Beamish, "I'm not goin' to do anything- of that sort. What in the name of common ben:?e would you do -\\ ith her b'ood ' " •• I would examine it microscopically," I said. '• I might find out all I want to know." Uncle Beamish did not sympathize with this method of diag-no--i^. ■■It you did find out there was the wrong kind of germs, you couldn't do anything with them to-night, and it would just worry you."' said the old man. " 1 believe that nature will git along fust rate without any help, at least till mornin'. But you've got to give her some medicine, not so much for her good as for our good. If -he's not treated, wo" re bounced. Can"t you give her somethin' that would do anybody good, no matter what s the matter with 'em .' If it was the spn.i'4 oi the yeir I would s;iy sarsaparilla. It you could mix her up soniethin' and put it in to some of them benevolent microbes the doctors talk about, it would be a good deed to do to an j r body." "The benign bacilli," wiid I ; " unfortunately I havn't any of them with me."' •• And if you had," he remarked, '• I'd be in favour of givin' 'em to the old woman. I take it they would do her more good than anybody else. Come along now, Doctor, it is about time to go upstairs and see how the other stuff acted — not on the patient, 1 don't mean, but on the old woman. The tact is, you know it's her we're dosin'."' •• Xot at all." said I. speaking a little severely, *• I am trying to do my very best for the patient, but I fear I cannot do it without seeing her. Don't you think it you told the old lady how absolutely necessary " •• Don't say anything more about that," exclaimed Uncle Beamish. ■• I hoped I wouldn't have to mention it, but she told me ag'n that she would never have one of these unfledged medical students, just out of the egg-jhell, experimental' on any of her family, and from what she said about you in particular. I should say she considered you as a medical chick without even down on you." •■ What can she know ot me .' " I asked indignantly. •• (Jive it up," said he, '• can't guess it : but that ain't the pint — the pint is, what are we goin' to give her .' When I was young- the doctors used to say. when you are in doubt, give calomel, as if you were playin" trumps." ■• Xonsense, nonsense," said I, my eyes earnestly fixed upon my open medical case. '• I suppose a mustard plaster on the back of her neck " "Wouldn't do at all." I interrupted. '"Wait a minute now — yes — I know what I will do, I will give her sodium bromide, ten grains."

" Which will hit if it's a deer, and miss if it's a calf, as the hunter said ? " inquired Uncle Beamish. " It will certainly not injure her." said I. " and I am quite sure it will be a positive advantage. If there has been cerebral disturbance, which has subsided temporarily, it will assist her to tide over the interim before its recurrence." " All right.'' said Uncle Beamish, •' give it to me and I'll be off ; its time I showed up agin." He did not Htay upstairs very long, this time. " No symptoms yit, but the patient looked at me as if she wanted to say somethin', but she didn't get no chance, for the old lady set herself down as if she was planted in a garden-bed and intended to stay there ; but the patient took the medicine as mild as a lamb." "That is very good," said I. "It may be that she appreciates the seriousness of her case better than we do." " T should «ay «he wants to git well," he replied, " she looks like that sort of a person to mo. The old woman said she thought we would have to stay awhile till the storm slackened, and I said, yes, indeed, and there wasn't any chance of its slackenin' to-night ; besides. I wanted to see the patient before bedtime." At this moment the door opened, and the servant woman came in. '• She says you are to have supper, and it will be ready in about half an hour. One of you had better go out and attend to your horse, for the man is not coming back to-night." '• I will go to the barn," said I, rising. Uncle Beamish also rose and said he would go with me. " I guess you can find some hay and oats." said the woman, as we were putting on our coats and overshoes in the kitchen. ,' % and here' s a lantern. We don't keep no horse now, but there's feed left. 1 ' As we pushed our way through the deep snow into the barn, Uncle Beamish said : " I've been tryin' my best to think where we aro. without askin' any questions, and I'm dead beat ; I don't remember no such house as this on the road." " Perhaps we're off the road," said I. " That may be." said he as we entered the barn : '• it's a straight road from Warburton to the pike near my sister's house, but there's two other roads that branch off to the right and strike the pike furder off to the east ; perhaps we got on to one of them in all that darkness and perplexing whiteness, when it wasn't easy to see whether we were kecpin' a straight road or not." The horse neighed as we approached with a light. " I would not be at all surprised." said I, >% if this horse had belonged here and that was the reason why. as soon as. he got a chance, he turned and made straight for his old home." "That isn't unlikely," said Uncle Beamish, '"and that's the reason we did not pass Crocker's. But here we are. wherever it is. and here we've got to stay till morn in." We found hay and oats and a pump in the corner of the wagonhouse, and having put the horse in the stall and made him as comfortable as possible with some old blankets, we returned to the house, bringing our valises with us. Our supper was served in the sitting-room because there was a good fire there, and the servant told us we w ould ha\ c to eat by ourselves, as she wai not coming down. ■• We'll excuse her." said L'ncle Beamish, with an alacrity of expression that might have cau.->ed suspicion. We had a good supper, and were then shown a room on the first floor on the other side of the hall, where the servant said we were to sleep. We s-at by the stove a while, waiting for ue% elopements, bid. as Uncle Beamish's bedtime was- rapidly approaching-, he sent word to the sick-chamber that he was coming tor his iinal visit. This time he stayed upstairs but a tew minutes-. '■ Sho's fast asleep." said he. " ami the old woman says she'll call me if I'm needed in the night, and you'll have to jump up sharp and overhaul that medicine case, if that happens." The next morning, and very early m the morning. I was awaked by Uncle Beamish, who stood by my side. '• Look here," said he. '• I've been outside : it's stopped snowin' and it's clearin' off. I've been to the barn, and I've led the horse, and I tell you what I'm in favor ot doin'. There's nobody up yit, and I don't want to stay here and make no explanations to that old woman. I don't fancy gettin' into rows on Christinas inornin'. We've done all the good we can here, and the best thing we can do is to get away before anybody is up and leave a note sayin' we've got to go on without losing time, and that we will nend another doctor as soon as po-sible. j\ly sister's doctor don't live fur away from her. and I know she will be willin 1 to send for him. Then our duty will be done, and what the old woman thinks of us won't make no difference to nobody." '• That plan suits mo." said I. rising ; '• I don't want to stay here and. as I am not to be allowed to see the patient, there is no reason why I should stay. What we have done will more than pay for our supper and lodging*, so that our consciences are clear," •• But you must write a note," said uncle Beamish. " (lot any paper ? " I tore a leaf from my note-book and went to I lie window, where it was barely light enough tor me to see how to w rite. "Make it short," said the old man, "I'm awlul fidgetty to get off." I made it very short, and then, valises in hand, we quietly took our way to (he kitchen. '* llow this Hum does vrcik ! " s.uil I" nt.li* Bmmi-h. ''Cut on your overcoat and shot's ;is quick as can, ami )ra\e the note on this- table." I had jusl shaken myself into !in hum coat when Uncle Beamish gave a subdued exclamation, and quickly turning, T saw entering the kitchen a female figure in winter wraps, and carrying a handbag. " By George ! " whispered the old man, '• its the patient ! " The figure advanced directly toward me.

" Oh, Dr. Glover ! " she whispered, " I am so glad to get down before you went away." I stared in amazement at the speaker, but even in the dim light I recognized her. This was the human being whose expected presence at the Collingwood mansion was taking me there to spend Christmas. " Kitty," I exclaimed — '• Miss Burroughs, I mean — what ts the meaning oi this 1 " " Don't ask me for any meanings now," she said, " I want you and your uncle to take me to the Collingwoods, I suppose you are on your way there, for they wrote you were coming — and, oh ! let us be quick, for I'm afraid Jane will come down and she will be sure to wake up Aunty. I saw one of you go down to the barn and knew you intended to leave, so I got ready just as fast as I could. But I must leave some word for Aunty." •' I have written her a note," said I. " But are you well enough to travel?" " Just let me add a line to it," said she ; " I am as well as over I was.'' I gave her a pencil and she hurriedly wrote something on the paper which I had left on the kitchen-table. Then quickly glancing around, she picked up a large carving-fork, and sticking it through the paper into the soft wood of the table, she left it standing there. '• Now it won"t blow away when we open the door," she whispered. •' Come on." '• You cannot go out to the barn,'" I said, " we will bring up the sleigh." '• Oh, no, no, no, " she answered, '• I must not wait here. If I onoe get out of the house I shall feel safe. Of course I would go, anyway, but I don't want any quarrelling on this Christmas morning." " I'm in with you thore," said Uncle Beamish, approvingly, '• Doctor, we can take her to the barn without her touching the snow. Let her sit in this arm-chair, and we can carry her between us. She's no weight."' In half a minute the kitchen-door was softly closed behind us, and we were carrying Miss Borrovtghs to the barn. My soul was in a wild tumult ; dozens of questions were on my tongue, but I had no chance to a^k any of them. Uncle Beamish and I returned to the porch for the valises, and then, closing the barn-door, we rapidly began to make preparations for leaving. " I suppose," said Uncle Beamish, as we went into the stable, leaving Miss Borroughs in the wagon-house, " that this business is all right 1 You seem to know the young woman, and she is of age to act for herself." '•Whatever she wants to do," I answered, "is perfectly right ; you may trust to that. I do not understand the matter any more than you do, but I know she is expected at the Collingwoods, and wants to get there." " Very good," said Uncle Beamish, '■ we'll get away fust and aek explanations afterward." " Doctor Glover." said Miss Burroughs, as we led the horss into the wagon-house, "don't put the bells on him ; stuff them gently under the seat, as softly as you can, But how are we all to go away ? I have been looking at that sleigh, and it is intended only for two." '• It * rather late to think oi that. Sli^s," said Uncle Beamish, •• but there's one thing that's certain. We're both very polite to ladie-. but neither of us is willin' to belett behind on this trip. But it's a good— ized sleigh and we'll all puck in. well enough. You and me can sit on the back seat, and the Doctor can stand up in front of us and drive. In old times it was considered the right thing for the driver of the sleigh to stand up and do his drivin'." The baggage was caretully stowed away^ and after a look around the dimly lighted wag on -house. Mit>s Borroughs and Uncle Beamish got into the sleigh, and 1 tucked the big iur-robe around them. '■ I hate to make a journey before breakfast," said Uncle Beamish ns I was doing this. •' especially on Chrif-tmas niornin', but somehow or other, there seems to be somethin' jolly about this business, and we won't have to wait so long for breakf a&t. nuther. It can't be far from my sister's, and we'll all stop there and have breakfast ; then you two can leave me and go on. She'll be as glad to see any friends of mine a* if they were her own. And she'll be pretty sure, on a mornin' like this, to have buckwheat cakes and sausages." Mis** Burroughs looked at the old man with a puzzled air. but she asked him no questions. '■ How are you going to keep yourself warm, Dr. Glover ? " she said. •' Oh. this long ulster will be enough for me," I replied, '■ and as I i-hall stand up. I could not use a robe if we had another." In fact, the thought of being with Miss Burroughs and the anticipation of a sleigh-ride alone with her. niter we hud left Uncle Beamish at his sister's, had put me into such a glow that I scarcely know it was cold weather. '■ Yuu'd better be keerful. Doctor." said Uncle Beamish, "you won't A\;mt to get rheumatism in your jints on this Christmas lncrnin". Here's this horse-blanket that we are set tin' on ; we don't need it and you'd better wrap it round you. after you get in, to keep your legs warm." "Oh, do ! " said Miss Burroughs, '-it may look funny, but wo will not meet anybody so early as this." '■ All right ! " said I, '" and now we arc ready to start," I slid back the barn-door and then led the horse outsido. Closing the dour, and making as little noise :is powble in doing- it, J got into the sleigh, liniling- plenty oi room to comfortably stand in trout ot my companion*. .Now I wrapped the hor.se- blanket about the lowei part of my body, and. as 1 Jiail no belt with which to it, Miss Burroughs kindly offered to iaston it round my waist by meaus of a long pin which she took from her hat. It is impossible to describe the exhilaration that pervaded me as she performed this kindly office. After thanking her warmly. T took the reins nnd we started,

" It is so lucky," whispered Miss Burroughs, " that I happened to think about the bells. We don't make any noise at all." This was true ; the slowly uplifted hoofs of the horse descended quietly into the soft snow, and the sleigh-runners slipped along without a sound. " Drive straight for the gate. Doctor," whispered Uncle Beamish, " It don't matter nothin' about g-oin' over flower-beds and grass-plats in such weather." I followed his advice, for no roadway could be seen. But we had gone but a short distance when the horse suddenly stopped. " What's the matter .' " asked Miss Burroughs in a low voice. "Is it too deep for him / " " We're in a drift," said Uncle Beamish. " But it's not too deep ; make him go ahead, Doctor." I clicked gently and tapped the horse with the whip, but he did not move. " What a dreadful thing," whispered Miss Burroughs, leaning forward, " for him to stop so near the house. Doctor Glover, what does this mean ? " and, as she spoke, she half rose behind me. '• Where did Sir Rohan come from .' " " Who's he / ' asked Uncle Beamish, quickly. "That horse," she answered. "Thats my aunt's horse; she sold him a few days ago. ' '• By George ! ' ejeculated Uncle Beamish, unconsciously raising his voice a little. '• Wilson bought him. and his bringin us here is as plain as a-b-c. And now he don t want to leave home. " But he has got to do it, ' said I, jerking the horse s head to one side and giving him a cut with the whip. "Dont whip him," whispered Miss Burroughs, "it always makes him more stubborn. How glad lam I thought of the bells ! The only way to get him to go is to mollify him. ' " But how is that to be done .' ' I asked, anxiously. '• You must give him sugar and pat his neck. It I had some BUgar and could get out ' '■ But you haven't it, and you can t get out." said Uncle Beamish. '• Try him again, Doctor ! " I jerked the reins impatiently. "Go along ! " said I. but he did not go along. " Haven't you got somethin' in your medicine case you could mollify him with .' " said Uncle Beamish. " Somethin' sweet that he might like ? " For an instant I caught at this absurd suggestion, and my mind ran over the contents of my little bottles. If I had known his character, some sodium bromide in his morning feed might, by this time, have modified his obstinacy. '• If I could be free of this blanket." said I, fumbling at the pin behind me. " I would get out and lead him into the load." •• You could not do it." said Miss Burroughs. '• You might pull his head off but he wouldn't move ; I have seen him tried." At this moment a window-sash in the second story of the house was raised, and there, not thirty feet from us. stood an elderly female wrapped in a gray shawl, with piercing eyes shining through great spectacles. " You seem to be stuck," said she. sarcastically. •• You are worse stuck than the fork was in my kitchen table." We made no answer. I do not know how Miss Burroughs looked or felt, or what was the appearance of Uncle Beamish, but 1 know I must have been very red in the face. I gave the horse a powerful crack and shouted to him tc go on ; there was no need for low speaking now. •• You needn't be cruel to dumb animals." said the old lady. " and you can't budge him. He never did like snow, especially in going away from home. You cut a powerful queer figure, young man, with that horse-blanket around you. You don't look much like a practising physician." "Miss Burroughs," I exclaimed, ••please take that pin out of this blanket. It I can't get at hi» head I know I can pull him around and make him go." But she did not seem to hear me. •' Aunty," she cried, "it s a shame to stand there and make tun of v«. \\ c have got a perfect right to go away if we want to. and we ought not to be laughed at" The old Lady paid no attention to this remark. '• And there's that iaKe doctor," she said ; " I wonder how he feels just now." '•raise doctor !" exclaimed Miss Burroughs. '"I dont understand." •• Young laily." said Uncle Peimish, " I'm no false doctor. I intended to tell you all about it as soon as 1 got :i chance, but I haven't had one. And. old lady. I'd like you to know that I don't say I'm a doctor, but I do say I'm a nnss, and a good nu^, and you can't deny it." . To this challenge the figure at the window made no answer. -Catherine." said she. " I can't stand here and take cold, but I just want to know one thing. Have you positively made up your mind to marry that young doctor in the horse-blanket .' This que-tion fell like a bomb-shell into the middle of the stationary sleigh. I had never asked Kitty to marry me. I loved her with all my heart and soul, and I hoped, almost believed, that she loved me. It had been my intention when we should be left together in the sleigh this morning, alter dropping Uncle Beamish at his sister's, to ask her to marry me. „-,,,, fl i * The old woman's question pierced me as it it had been a flash ot lightning, coming through the frosty air ot a winter morning. 1 dropped 'the useless reins and turned. Kitty's lace was ablaze : she made a movement as if she \\a* about to jump out ot the sleigh ami flee. ' •• Oh. Kitty ' " I. bend inn down towaul her. " tell her yes. I beg. 1 entreat. 1 implore you to tell her yes ! Oh, Kitty ' if you don't "say yes 1 never know another happy day." For one moment Kitty looked up into my face, and then said she : . . . „ '• It is my positive intention to marry him.

With the agility of a youth, Uncle Beamish threw the robe from him and sprang out into the deep snow ; then turning towards us, he took off his hat. "By George ! " said he, " you're a pair of trumps. I never did see any human bein's step up to the mark more prompt. Madam," he cried, addressing the old lady, •' you ought to be the proudest woman in this county at seem' such a thing like this happen under your window of a Christmas mornin'. And now the best thing that you can do is to invite us all in to have breakfast." " You'll have to come in," said she, "or else stay out there and freeze to death, for that horse isn't going to take you away And if my niece really intends to marry the young man and has gone so far as to start to run away with him — and a false doctor — of course I've got no more to say about it, and you can come in and have breakfast : " and with that she shut down the window. '• That's talkin'," said Uncle Beamish ; '• sit still, Doctor, and I'll lead him around to the back door. I guess he'll move quick enough when you want him to turn back." Without the slightest objection Sir Rohan permitted himself to be turned back and led up to the kitchen-porch. •' Now you two sparklin' angels get out," said Uncle Beamish, " and go in, I'll attend to the horse." Jane, with a broad grin on her face, opened the kitchen-door. " Merry Christmas to you both !" she said. " Merry Christmas ! " we cried, and each of us shook her by the hand. '• Go in the sitting-room and get warm," said Jane, " she'll be down pretty soon." I do not know how long we were together in that sitting-room. We had thonsands of things to say, and we said most of them. Among other things we managed to get in some explanations of the occurrences of the previous night. Kitty told her tale briefly. She and her aunt, to whom she was making a visit, and who wanted her to make her house her home, had had a quarrel two days before. Kitty was wild to go to the Collingwoods, and the old lady, who for some reason, hated the family, was determined she should, not go. But Kitty was immovable and never gave up until she found that her aunt had gone so far as to dispose of her horse, thus making it impossible to travel in such weather, there being no public conveyances passing the house. Kitty was an orphan, and had a guardian who would have come to her aid, but she could not write to him in time, and, in utter despair, she went to bed. She would not eat or drink, she would not speak, and she covered up her head. " After a day and a night," said Kitty, " Aunty got dreadfully frightened and thought something was the matter with my brain ; her family are awfully anxious about their brains. I knew she had sent for the doctor, and I was glad of it, for I thought he would help me. I must say I was surprised when I first Baw that Mr. Beamish, for I thought he Was Doctor Morris. Now tell me about your coming here." '•And all the time," she said, when I had finished, "you didn't know you were prescribing for me. Please do tell me what were those medicines you sent up to me and which I took like a truly good girl." •• I didn't know it at the time," said I, •' but I sent you sixty drops of the deepest, strongest love in a glass of water, and ten grains of perfect adoration." '• Nonsense ! " said Kitty, with a blush, and at that moment Uncle Beamish knocked at the door. '• I thought I'd just step in and tell you." said he, " that break* fast will be comin' along in a minute. I found they were goin' to have buckwheat cakes anyway, and I prevailed upon Jane to put sausages in the bill of fare. Merry Christmas to you both ! I would like to say more, but here comes the old lady and Jane." The breakfast was a strange meal, but a very happy one. The old lady was very dignified ; she made no illusions to Christmas or to what had happened, but talked to Uncle Beamish about people in Warburton. I had a practical mind and, in spite of the present joy, I could not help feeling a little anxiety about what was to be done when breakfast was over ; but, just as we were about to rise from the table, we were startled by a great jingle of sleigh bells outside. The old lady arose and stepped to the window. " There ! " said she. turning towards us. '■ Here's a pretty kettle of fish ! There's a two-horse sleigh outside with a man driving and a gentleman in the back seat which I am sure is Doctor Morris, and he has come all the way. on this bitter cold morning, to see the patient I sent to him to come to. Now, who is going to tell him he has come on a fool's errand .' " •• Fool's errand !" I cried. " Everyone of you wait in here, and I'll go out and tell him." When I dashed out of doors and stood by the side of my Uncle's sleigh he was truly an amazed man. •■ I will get in. Uncle," said I, '• and if you will let John drive the horses slowly around the yard. I will tell you how I happen to be here." The story was a much longer one than I expected it to be. and John must have driven these horses backward and forward for half an hour. 11 Well," so id my uncle at last, " I never saw your Kitty, but I knew her farther and her mother, and I will go in and take a look at her. 1 1 I like her, I will take you all on to the Collingwoods, and drop Uncle Beamish at his sister's house.' •• 111 tell you what it is. young Doctor." said Uncle Beamish at parting, "you on»ht to buy that liig roan horse, he has been a legulnr guardian angel to us. this Christmas." "Oh, that would never do at all," cried Kitty. ''His patients would all die before he got there." '■That is, if they had anything the matter with them," added my uncle.