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."