I slid back the barn door and then led the horse outside. Closing the door, and making as little noise as possible in doing it, I got into the sleigh, finding plenty of room to stand up in front of my companions. Now I wrapped the horse-blanket about the lower part of my body, and as I had no belt with which to secure it, Miss Burroughs kindly offered to fasten it round my waist by means 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, I took the reins and 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 goin' 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! Dr. 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. "That's my aunt's horse. She sold him a few days ago." "By George!" ejaculated 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. "Don't whip him," whispered Miss Burroughs; "it always makes him more stubborn. How glad I am 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. If I had some sugar and could get out--" "But you haven't it, and you can't git 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 mollified his obstinacy.