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.
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