This, however, I would not do until I found my agent was really
culpable.  To discover what Barker had done, what he was doing, and
what he intended to do, was now my only business in life.  Until I had
satisfied myself on these points I could not think of starting out upon
my travels.

Now that I had determined I would not start for Europe until I had
satisfied myself that Mr. Barker was contenting himself with attending
to my business, and not endeavoring to force himself into social
relations with my tenants, I was anxious that the postponement of my
journey should be unknown to my friends and acquaintances, and I was,
therefore, very glad to see in a newspaper, published on the afternoon
of the day of my intended departure, my name among the list of
passengers who had sailed upon the Mnemonic.  For the first time I
commended the super-enterprise of a reporter who gave more attention to
the timeliness of his news than to its accuracy.

I was stopping at a New York hotel, but I did not wish to stay there.
Until I felt myself ready to start on my travels the neighborhood of
Boynton would suit me better than anywhere else.  I did not wish to go
to the town itself, for Barker lived there, and I knew many of the
townspeople; but there were farmhouses not far away where I might spend
a week.  After considering the matter, I thought of something that
might suit me.  About three miles from my house, on an unfrequented
road, was a mill which stood at the end of an extensive sheet of water,
in reality a mill-pond, but commonly called a lake.  The miller, an old
man, had recently died, and his house near by was occupied by a
newcomer whom I had never seen.  If I could get accommodations there it
would suit me exactly.  I left the train two stations below Boynton and
walked over to the mill.

The country-folk in my neighborhood are always pleased to take summer
boarders if they can get them, and the miller and his wife were glad to
give me a room, not imagining that I was the owner of a good house not
far away.  The place suited my requirements very well.  It was near
her, and I might live here for a time unnoticed, but what I was going
to do with my opportunity I did not know.  Several times the conviction
forced itself upon me that I should get up at once and go to Europe by
the first steamer, and so show myself that I was a man of sense.

This conviction was banished on the second afternoon of my stay at the
mill.  I was sitting under a tree in the orchard near the house,
thinking and smoking my pipe, when along the road which ran by the side
of the lake came Mr. Vincent on my black horse General and his daughter
on my mare Sappho.  Instinctively I pulled my straw hat over my eyes,
but this precaution was not necessary.  They were looking at the
beautiful lake, with its hills and overhanging trees, and saw me not!

When the very tip of Sappho's tail had melted into the foliage of the
road, I arose to my feet and took a deep breath of the happy air.  I
had seen her, and it was with her father she was riding.

I do not believe I slept a minute that night through thinking of her,
and feeling glad that I was near her, and that she had been riding with
her father.

When the early dawn began to break an idea brighter than the dawn broke
upon me: I would get up and go nearer to her.  It is amazing how much
we lose by not getting up early on the long summer days.  How beautiful
the morning might be on this earth I never knew until I found myself
wandering by the edge of my woods and over my lawn with the tender
gray-blue sky above me and all the freshness of the grass and flowers
and trees about me, the birds singing among the branches, and she
sleeping sweetly somewhere within that house with its softly defined
lights and shadows.  How I wished I knew what room she occupied!

The beauties and joys of that hour were lost to every person on the
place, who were all, no doubt, in their soundest sleep.  I did not even
see a dog.  Quietly and stealthily stepping from bush to hedge, I went
around the house, and as I drew near the barn I fancied I could hear
from a little room adjoining it the snores of the coachman.  The lazy
rascal would probably not awaken for two or three hours yet, but I
would ran no risks, and in half an hour I had sped away.

Now I knew exactly why I was staying at the house of the miller.  I was
doing so in order that I might go early in the mornings to my own home,
in which the girl I loved lay dreaming, and that for the rest of the
day and much of the night I might think of her.

"What place in Europe," I said to myself, "could be so beautiful, so
charming, and so helpful to reflection as this sequestered lake, these
noble trees, these stretches of undulating meadow?"

Even if I should care to go abroad, a month or two later would answer
all my purposes.  Why had I ever thought of spending five months away?

There was a pretty stream which ran from the lake and wended its way
through a green and shaded valley, and here, with a rod, I wandered and
fished and thought.  The miller had boats, and in one of these I rowed
far up the lake where it narrowed into a creek, and between the high
hills which shut me out from the world I would float and think.

Every morning, soon after break of day, I went to my home and wandered
about my grounds.  If it rained I did not mind that.  I like a summer
rain.

Day by day I grew bolder.  Nobody in that household thought of getting
up until seven o'clock.  For two hours, at least, I could ramble
undisturbed through my grounds, and much as I had once enjoyed these
grounds, they never afforded me the pleasure they gave me now.  In
these happy mornings I felt all the life and spirits of a boy.  I went
into my little field and stroked the sleek sides of my cows as they
nibbled the dewy grass.  I even peeped through the barred window of
Sappho's box and fed her, as I had been used to doing, with bunches of
clover.  I saw that the young chickens were flourishing.  I went into
the garden and noted the growth of the vegetables, feeling glad that
she would have so many fine strawberries and tender peas.

I had not the slightest doubt that she was fond of flowers, and for her
sake now, as I used to do for my own sake, I visited the flower beds
and borders.  Not far from the house there was a cluster of
old-fashioned pinks which I was sure were not doing very well.  They
had been there too long, perhaps, and they looked stunted and weak.  In
the miller's garden I had noticed great beds of these pinks, and I
asked his wife if I might have some, and she, considering them as mere
wild flowers, said I might have as many as I liked.  She might have
thought I wanted simply the blossoms, but the next morning I went over
to my house with a basket filled with great matted masses of the plants
taken up with the roots and plenty of earth around them, and after
twenty minutes' work in my own bed of pinks, I had taken out all the
old plants and filled their places with fresh, luxuriant masses of buds
and leaves and blossoms.  How glad she would be when she saw the fresh
life that had come to that flower-bed!  With light footsteps I went
away, not feeling the weight of the basket filled with the old plants
and roots.

The summer grew and strengthened, and the sun rose earlier, but as that
had no effect upon the rising of the present inhabitants of my place,
it gave me more time for my morning pursuits.  Gradually I constituted
myself the regular flower-gardener of the premises.  How delightful the
work was, and how foolish I thought I had been never to think of doing
this thing for myself! but no doubt it was because I was doing it for
her that I found it so pleasant.

Once again I had seen Miss Vincent.  It was in the afternoon, and I had
rowed myself to the upper part of the lake, where, with the high hills
and the trees on each side of me, I felt as if I were alone in the
world.  Floating, idly along, with my thoughts about three miles away,
I heard the sound of oars, and looking out on the open part of the
lake, I saw a boat approaching.  The miller was rowing, and in the
stern sat an elderly gentleman and a young lady.  I knew them in an
instant: they were Mr. and Miss Vincent.

With a few vigorous strokes I shot myself into the shadows, and rowed
up the stream into the narrow stretches among the lily-pads, under a
bridge, and around a little wooded point, where I ran the boat ashore
and sprang upon the grassy bank.  Although I did not believe the miller
would bring them as far as this, I went up to a higher spot and watched
for half an hour; but I did not see them again.  How relieved I was!
It would have been terribly embarrassing had they discovered me.  And
how disappointed I was that the miller turned back so soon!

I now extended the supervision of my grounds.  I walked through the
woods, and saw how beautiful they were in the early dawn.  I threw
aside the fallen twigs and cut away encroaching saplings, which were
beginning to encumber the paths I had made, and if I found a bough
which hung too low I cut it off.  There was a great beech-tree, between
which and a dogwood I had the year before suspended a hammock.  In
passing this, one morning, I was amazed to see a hammock swinging from
the hooks I had put in the two trees.  This was a retreat which I had
supposed no one else would fancy or even think of!  In the hammock was
a fan--a common Japanese fan.  For fifteen minutes I stood looking at
that hammock, every nerve a-tingle.  Then I glanced around.  The spot
had been almost unfrequented since last summer.  Little bushes, weeds,
and vines had sprung up here and there between the two trees.  There
were dead twigs and limbs lying about, and the short path to the main
walk was much overgrown.

I looked at my watch.  It was a quarter to six.  I had yet a good hour
for work, and with nothing but my pocket-knife and my hands I began to
clear away the space about that hammock.  When I left it, it looked as
it used to look when it was my pleasure to lie there and swing and read
and reflect.

To approach this spot it was not necessary to go through my grounds,
for my bit of woods adjoined a considerable stretch of forest-land, and
in my morning walks from the mill I often used a path through these
woods.  The next morning when I took this path I was late because I had
unfortunately overslept myself.  When I reached the hammock it wanted
fifteen minutes to seven o'clock.  It was too late for me to do
anything, but I was glad to be able to stay there even for a few
minutes, to breathe that air, to stand on that ground, to touch that
hammock.  I did more than that.  Why shouldn't I?  I got into it.  It
was a better one than that I had hung there.  It was delightfully
comfortable.  At this moment, gently swinging in that woodland
solitude, with the sweet odors of the morning all about me, I felt
myself nearer to her than I had ever been before.

But I knew I must not revel in this place too long.  I was on the point
of rising to leave when I heard approaching footsteps.  My breath
stopped.  Was I at last to be discovered?  This was what came of my
reckless security.  But perhaps the person, some workman most likely,
would pass without noticing me.  To remain quiet seemed the best
course, and I lay motionless.

But the person approaching turned into the little pathway.  The
footsteps came nearer.  I sprang from the hammock.  Before me was Miss
Vincent!

What was my aspect I know not, but I have no doubt I turned fiery red.
She stopped suddenly, but she did not turn red.

"Oh, Mr. Ripley," she exclaimed, "good morning!  You must excuse me.  I
did not know--"

That she should have had sufficient self-possession to say good morning
amazed me.  Her whole appearance, in fact, amazed me.  There seemed to
be something wanting in her manner.  I endeavored to get myself into
condition.

"You must be surprised," I said, "to see me here.  You supposed I was
in Europe, but--"

As I spoke I made a couple of steps toward her, but suddenly stopped.
One of my coat buttons had caught in the meshes of the hammock.  It was
confoundedly awkward.  I tried to loosen the button, but it was badly
entangled.  Then I desperately pulled at it to tear it off.

"Oh, don't do that," she said.  "Let me unfasten it for you." And
taking the threads of the hammock in one of her little hands and the
button in the other, she quickly separated them.  "I should think
buttons would be very inconvenient things--at least, in hammocks," she
said smiling.  "You see, girls don't have any such trouble."

I could not understand her manner.  She seemed to take my being there
as a matter of course.

"I must beg a thousand pardons for this--this trespass," I said.

"Trespass!" said she, with a smile.  "People don't trespass on their
own land--"

"But it is not my land," said I.  "It is your father's for the time
being.  I have no right here whatever.  I do not know how to explain,
but you must think it very strange to find me here when you supposed I
had started for Europe."

"Oh!  I knew you had not started for Europe," said she, "because I have
seen you working in the grounds--"

"Seen me!" I interrupted.  "Is it possible?"

"Oh, yes," said she.  "I don't know how long you had been coming when I
first saw you, but when I found that fresh bed of pinks all
transplanted from somewhere, and just as lovely as they could be,
instead of the old ones, I spoke to the man; but he did not know
anything about it, and said he had not had time to do anything to the
flowers, whereas I had been giving him credit for ever so much weeding
and cleaning up.  Then I supposed that Mr. Barker, who is just as kind
and attentive as he can be, had done it; but I could hardly believe he
was the sort of man to come early in the morning and work out of
doors,"--("Oh, how I wish he had come!" I thought.  "If I had caught
him here working among the flowers!"),--"and when he came that
afternoon to play tennis I found that he had been away for two days,
and could not have planted the pinks.  So I simply got up early one
morning and looked out, and there I saw you, with your coat off,
working just as hard as ever you could."

I stepped back, my mind for a moment a perfect blank.

"What could you have thought of me?" I exclaimed presently.

"Really, at first I did not know what to think," said she.  "Of course
I did not know what had detained you in this country, but I remembered
that I had heard that you were a very particular person about your
flowers and shrubs and grounds, and that most likely you thought they
would be better taken care of if you kept an eye on them, and that when
you found there was so much to do you just went to work and did it.  I
did not speak of this to anybody, because if you did not wish it to be
known that you were taking care of the grounds it was not my business
to tell people about it.  But yesterday, when I found this place where
I had hung my hammock so beautifully cleared up and made so nice and
clean and pleasant in every way, I thought I must come down to tell you
how much obliged I am, and also that you ought not to take so much
trouble for us.  If you think the grounds need more attention, I will
persuade my father to hire another man, now and then, to work about the
place.  Really, Mr. Ripley, you ought not to have to--"

I was humbled, abashed.  She had seen me at my morning devotions, and
this was the way she interpreted them.  She considered me an overnice
fellow who was so desperately afraid his place would be injured that he
came sneaking around every morning to see if any damage had been done
and to put things to rights.

She stood for a moment as if expecting me to speak, brushed a buzzing
fly from her sleeve, and then, looking at me with a gentle smile, she
turned a little as if she were about to leave.

I could not let her go without telling her something.  Her present
opinion of me must not rest in her mind another minute.  And yet, what
story could I devise?  How, indeed, could I devise anything with which
to deceive a girl who spoke and looked at me as this girl did?  I could
not do it.  I must rush away speechless and never see her again, or I
must tell her all.  I came a little nearer to her.

"Miss Vincent," said I, "you do not understand at all why I am
here--why I have been here so much--why I did not go to Europe.  The
truth is, I could not leave.  I do not wish to be away; I want to come
here and live here always--"

"Oh, dear!" she interrupted, "of course it is natural that you should
not want to tear yourself away from your lovely home.  It would be very
hard for us to go away now, especially for father and me, for we have
grown to love this place so much.  But if you want us to leave, I dare
say--"

"I want you to leave!" I exclaimed.  "Never!  When I say that I want to
live here myself, that my heart will not let me go anywhere else, I
mean that I want you to live here too--you, your mother and
father--that I want--"

 "Oh, that would be perfectly splendid!" she said.  "I have
ever so often thought that it was a shame that you should be deprived
of the pleasures you so much enjoy, which I see you can find here and
nowhere else.  Now, I have a plan which I think will work splendidly.
We are a very small family.  Why shouldn't you come here and live with
us?  There is plenty of room, and I know father and mother would be
very glad, and you can pay your board, if that would please you better.
You can have the room at the top of the tower for your study and your
smoking den, and the room under it can be your bedroom, so you can be
just as independent as you please of the rest of us, and you can be
living on your own place without interfering with us in the least.  In
fact, it would be ever so nice, especially as I am in the habit of
going away to the sea-shore with my aunt every summer for six weeks,
and I was thinking how lonely it would be this year for father and
mother to stay here all by themselves."

The tower and the room under it!  For me!  What a contemptibly
little-minded and insignificant person she must think me.  The words
with which I strove to tell her that I wished to live here as lord,
with her as my queen, would not come.  She looked at me for a moment as
I stood on the brink of saying something but not saying it, and then
she turned suddenly toward the hammock.

"Did you see anything of a fan I left here?" she said.  "I know I left
it here, but when I came yesterday it was gone.  Perhaps you may have
noticed it somewhere--"

Now, the morning before, I had taken that fan home with me.  It was an
awkward thing to carry, but I had concealed it under my coat.  It was a
contemptible trick, but the fan had her initials on it, and as it was
the only thing belonging to her of which I could possess myself, the
temptation had been too great to resist.  As she stood waiting for my
answer there was a light in her eye which illuminated my perceptions.

"Did you see me take that fan?" I asked.

"I did," said she.

"Then you know," I exclaimed, stepping nearer to her, "why it is I did
not leave this country as I intended, why it was impossible for me to
tear myself away from this house, why it is that I have been here every
morning, hovering around and doing the things I have been doing?"

She looked up at me, and with her eyes she said, "How could I help
knowing?"  She might have intended to say something with her lips, but
I took my answer from her eyes, and with the quick impulse of a lover I
stopped her speech.

"You have strange ways," she said presently, blushing and gently
pressing back my arm.  "I haven't told you a thing."

"Let us tell each other everything now," I cried, and we seated
ourselves in the hammock.

It was a quarter of an hour later and we were still sitting together in
the hammock.

"You may think," said she, "that, knowing what I did, it was very queer
for me to come out to you this morning, but I could not help it.  You
were getting dreadfully careless, and were staying so late and doing
things which people would have been bound to notice, especially as
father is always talking about our enjoying the fresh hours of the
morning, that I felt I could not let you go on any longer.  And when it
came to that fan business I saw plainly that you must either
immediately start for Europe or--"

"Or what?" I interrupted.

"Or go to my father and regularly engage yourself as a--"

I do not know whether she was going to say "gardener" or not, but it
did not matter.  I stopped her.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later, and we were standing together at
the edge of the woods.  She wanted me to come to the house to take
breakfast with them.

"Oh, I could not do that!" I said.  "They would be so surprised.  I
should have so much to explain before I could even begin to state my
case."

"Well, then, explain," said she.  "You will find father on the front
piazza.  He is always there before breakfast, and there is plenty of
time.  After all that has been said here, I cannot go to breakfast and
look commonplace while you run away."

"But suppose your father objects?" said I.

"Well, then you will have to go back and take breakfast with your
miller," said she.

I never saw a family so little affected by surprises as those Vincents.
When I appeared on the front piazza the old gentleman did not jump.  He
shook hands with me and asked me to sit down, and when I told him
everything he did not even ejaculate, but simply folded his hands
together and looked out over the railing.

"It seemed strange to Mrs. Vincent and myself," he said, "when we first
noticed your extraordinary attachment for our daughter, but, after all,
it was natural enough."

"Noticed it!" I exclaimed.  "When did you do that?"

"Very soon," he said.  "When you and Cora were cataloguing the books at
my house in town I noticed it and spoke to Mrs. Vincent, but she said
it was nothing new to her, for it was plain enough on the day when we
first met you here that you were letting the house to Cora, and that
she had not spoken of it to me because she was afraid I might think it
wrong to accept the favorable and unusual arrangements you were making
with us if I suspected the reason for them.  We talked over the matter,
but, of course, we could do nothing, because there was nothing to do,
and Mrs. Vincent was quite sure you would write to us from Europe.  But
when my man Ambrose told me he had seen some one working about the
place in the very early morning, and that, as it was a gentleman, he
supposed it must be the landlord, for nobody else would be doing such
things, Mrs. Vincent and I looked out of the window the next day, and
when we found it was indeed you who were coming here every day, we felt
that the matter was serious and were a good deal troubled.  We found,
however, that you were conducting affairs in a very honorable
way,--that you were not endeavoring to see Cora, and that you did not
try to have any secret correspondence with her,--and as we had no right
to prevent you from coming on your grounds, we concluded to remain
quiet until you should take some step which we would be authorized to
notice.  Later, when Mr. Barker came and told me that you had not gone
to Europe, and were living with a miller not far from here--"

"Barker!" I cried.  "The scoundrel!"

"You are mistaken, sir," said Mr. Vincent.  "He spoke with the greatest
kindness of you, and said that as it was evident you had your own
reasons for wishing to stay in the neighborhood, and did not wish the
fact to be known, he had spoken of it to no one but me, and he would
not have done this had he not thought it would prevent embarrassment in
case we should meet."

Would that everlasting Barker ever cease meddling in my affairs?

"Do you suppose," I asked, "that he imagined the reason for my staying
here?"

"I do not know," said the old gentleman, "but after the questions I put
to him I have no doubt he suspected it.  I made many inquiries of him
regarding you, your family, habits, and disposition, for this was a
very vital matter to me, sir, and I am happy to inform you that he said
nothing of you that was not good, so I urged him to keep the matter to
himself.  I determined, however, that if you continued your morning
visits I should take an early opportunity of accosting you and asking
an explanation."

"And you never mentioned anything of this to your daughter?" said I.

"Oh, no," he answered.  "We carefully kept everything from her."

"But, my dear sir," said I, rising, "you have given me no answer.  You
have not told me whether or not you will accept me as a son-in-law."

He smiled.  "Truly," he said, "I have not answered you; but the fact
is, Mrs. Vincent and I have considered the matter so long, and having
come to the conclusion that if you made an honorable and
straightforward proposition, and if Cora were willing to accept you, we
could see no reason to object to--"

At this moment the front door opened and Cora appeared.

"Are you going to stay to breakfast?" she asked.  "Because, if you are,
it is ready."

I stayed to breakfast.

I am now living in my own house, not in the two tower rooms, but in the
whole mansion, of which my former tenant, Cora, is now mistress
supreme.  Mr. and Mrs. Vincent expect to spend the next summer here and
take care of the house while we are travelling.

Mr. Barker, an excellent fellow and a most thorough business man, still
manages my affairs, and there is nothing on the place that flourishes
so vigorously as the bed of pinks which I got from the miller's wife.

By the way, when I went back to my lodging on that eventful day, the
miller's wife met me at the door.

"I kept your breakfast waitin' for you for a good while," said she,
"but as you didn't come, I supposed you were takin' breakfast in your
own house, and I cleared it away."

"Do you know who I am?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, sir," she said.  "We did not at first, but when everybody
began to talk about it we couldn't help knowin' it."

"Everybody!" I gasped.  "And may I ask what you and everybody said
about me?"

"I think it was the general opinion, sir," said she, "that you were
suspicious of them tenants of yours, and nobody wondered at it, for
when city people gets into the country and on other people's property,
there's no trustin' them out of your sight for a minute."

I could not let the good woman hold this opinion of my tenants, and I
briefly told her the truth.  She looked at me with moist admiration in
her eyes.

"I am glad to hear that, sir," said she.  "I like it very much.  But if
I was you I wouldn't be in a hurry to tell my husband and the people in
the neighborhood about it.  They might be a little disappointed at
first, for they had a mighty high opinion of you when they thought that
you was layin' low here to keep an eye on them tenants of yours."




THE STAYING POWER OF SIR ROHAN

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 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 I 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 visits, I could not
have taken a better postgraduate course.

I had an invitation to spend the Christmas of that year with the
Collingwoods, 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 together.

"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 go on to the Collingwoods', which I should say isn't more
than three miles further."

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 goin' 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, give 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 slowly jingling sleigh-bells.

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 snowflakes 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 hour 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 half-way 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 this 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, "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.

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 his
pace was now greatly increased.

"That's the sort of beast to have," exclaimed 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 get 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 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 lights 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 fast 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 further than that, I'm in favor of stoppin'.  I'm not
afraid of a snow-storm, but I ain't a fool nuther, and if we haven't
got further than Crocker's it will be foolhardy to try to push on
through the dark and these big drifts, which will be gettin' bigger."

I did not give it up so easily.  I greatly wished to` reach my
destination that night.  But there were 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 restrain, he stopped suddenly.

"Hello!" exclaimed Uncle Beamish, peering forward, "here's a barn
door."  And he immediately began to throw off the far 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 further, doctor, and that is the long and the short of
it.  If the people here ain't Crockers, 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 the dark barn, fortunately finding nothing in his way.

"Now," said Uncle Beamish, "if we can get somethin' to tie him with, 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 barn door 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, light and warm.

"Come right in," she said.  "I heard your bells.  Did you put your
horse in the barn?"

"Yes," said Uncle Beamish, "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 up to tell her."

"I don't know this place," said Uncle 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 HIM."

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 stove 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 he can't get here.  But we've got
to stay here tonight, no matter who comes or doesn't come, and we've
got to be keerful in speakin' to the woman of the house.  If she is one
kind of a person, we can offer to pay for lodgin's and horse-feed; but
if she is another kind, we must steer clear of mentionin' pay, for it
will make her angry.  You had better leave the explainin' business to
me."

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 age, and plainly dressed.  Her pale
countenance wore a defiant look, and behind her spectacles blazed a
pair of dark eyes, which, after an instant's survey of her visitors,
were 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 glance 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 Beamish'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 worst kind.  We're mistook for doctors." "That is only half
a mistake," 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. Glover,' 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 paupers' hospitals for the
purpose of teachin' medical students; that she had heard of you, and
what she had heard she hadn't liked.  All this time she 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 took 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 sharp-set 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, uncover 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
me a good look, but she didn't say nothin'.  Now I WAS 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
be a row and we'll have to travel--storm or no storm.  But if you had
heard what that old woman said about young doctors, and you in
particular, you would know that you wasn't goin' to have anything to do
with this case--at least, you wouldn't show in it.  But I've got no
more time for 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 of nussin' in my life.  And then it seemed
nat'ral to ask her to put out her tongue, and when she did it I gave a
look at it and nodded my head.  `Do you think it is her brain?' said
the old woman, half whisperin'.  `Can't say anything about that yit,'
said I.  `I must go down-stairs and get the medicine-case.  The fust
thing to do is to give her a draught, and I will bring it up to her as
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 might go visitin'
without his medicine-case, but a young one would be sure to take it
along, no matter where he was goin'.  Now you get 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, if she
has got anything the matter with her brain, and which won't hurt her if
she hasn't.  And then, when I take it up to her, you tell me what
symptoms to look for.  I can do it--I have spent nights lookin' for
symptoms.  Then, when I come down and report, you might send her up
somethin' that would keep her from gettin' any wuss till the doctor can
come in the mornin', for he ain't comin' here to-night."

"A very good plan," said I.  "Now, what can I give her?  What is the
patient's age?"

"Oh, her age don't matter much," said Uncle Beamish, impatiently.  "She
may be twenty, more or less, and any mild stuff will do to begin with."

"I will give her some sweet spirits of nitre," said I, taking out a
little vial.  "Will you ask the servant for a glass of water and a
teaspoon?"

"Now," 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
whether we will go on with it or not."

"And what am I to look for?" said he.

"In the first place," said I, producing a clinical thermometer, "you
must take her temperature.  You know how to do that?"

"Oh, yes," said he.  "I have done it hundreds of times.  She must hold
it in her mouth five minutes."

"Yes, and while you are waiting," I continued, "you must try to find
out, in the first place, if there are, or have been, any signs of
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
paralysis or numbness in any part of the body.  These things must be
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 can give you something which will modify, or I should say--"

"Hold her where she is till mornin'," said Uncle Beamish. "That's what
you mean.  Be quick.  Give me that thermometer and the tumbler, and
when I come down again, I reckon you can fit her out with a
prescription just as good as anybody."

He hurried away, and I sat down to consider.  I was full of ambition,
full of enthusiasm for 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 brother.  So far, in the cases I had
undertaken, a consulting brother had always called himself in--that is,
I 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 to take charge of this case.  I wished I had not
forgotten to ask the old man how he had found the tongue and pulse.

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 woman 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 of her mouth she says, `You are
comin' up ag'in, doctor?' speakin' 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-eight
and a half, and that's about nat'ral, I take it."

"Yes," I said, "but you didn't tell me about her tongue and pulse."

"There wasn't nothin' remarkable about them," said he.

"All of 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," said Uncle Beamish; "they are ruther squinched up,
if anything.  And as to delirium, I couldn't see no signs of it, and
when I asked the old lady about the numbness, she said she didn't
believe there had been any."

"No tendency to shiver, no disposition to stretch?"

"No," 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--"

"If 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.

"No, no!" exclaimed Uncle Beamish, "I'm not goin' to do anything of
that sort.  What in the name of common sense would you do with her
blood?"

"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 diagnosis.

"If 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.  "I believe that nature will get 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 she's not treated we'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 spring of the year I
would say sarsaparilla.  If you could mix her up somethin' and put into
it some of them benevolent microbes the doctors talk about, it would be
a good deed to do to anybody."

"The benign bacilli," said I.  "Unfortunately I haven't any of them
with me."

"And if you had," he remarked, "I'd be in favor 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 for me to go up-stairs and see
how the other stuff acted--not on the patient, I don't mean, but on the
old woman.  The fact is, you know, it's her we're dosin'."

"Not 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 that if 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'in that she
would never have one of those unfledged medical students, just out of
the egg-shell, experimentin' 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 of me?"  I asked indignantly.

"Give it up," said he.  "Can't guess it.  But that ain't the p'int.
The p'int is, what are you 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."