"But are you well enough to
travel?"
"Just let me add a line to it," said she. "I am as well as I
ever 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
once get out of the house I shall feel safe. Of course I shall
go anyway, but I don't want any quarrelling on this Christmas
morning."
"I'm with you there," 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 Burroughs to the barn. My soul was
in a wild tumult. Dozens of questions were on my tongue, but I
had no chance to ask any of them.
Uncle Beamish and I returned to the porch for the valises,
and then, closing the back door, we rapidly began to make
preparations for leaving.
"I suppose," said Uncle Beamish, as we went into the stable,
leaving Miss Burroughs in the wagon-house, "that this business is
all right? You seem to know the young woman, and she is of age
to act for herself.
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