Druids, and still another story about a fir tree which Roger opined
respectfully was nothing like so good as Sister Madge's story of the
Cedar King who stood outside his window.

"Very likely not!" admitted the Doctor gravely.

"I've nothing like the respect for Mr. Hans Andersen myself that I have
for Sister Madge."

"I thought," ventured Roger shyly, slipping his hand suddenly into the
Doctor's, "that Doctors only knew how to cure folks!"

"Bless your heart, laddie," exclaimed the Doctor, considerably
staggered; "they know too little of that, I fear. My conscience!" as the
grandfather's clock came into the conversation with a throaty boom,
"it's half-past seven!" and from then on Roger noticed the Doctor was
uneasy, presently opining, with a prodigious "Hum!" that Aunt Ellen
looked mighty pale and tired and that he for one calculated a little
sleigh ride would brace her up for the party. This Aunt Ellen
immediately flouted and the Doctor was eventually forced to pathetic and
frequent reference to his own great need of air.

"Very well, my dear," said Aunt Ellen mildly, striving politely to
conceal her opinion of his mental health, "I'll go, since you feel so
strongly about it, but a sleigh ride in such a wind and such clothes
when one is expecting party guests--" but the relieved Doctor was
already bundling the brown-gold brocade into a fur-lined coat and
furtively winking at Roger! Thus it was that even as the Doctor's sleigh
flew merrily by the Deacon's pond, far across the snowy fields to the
north gleamed the lights of the 7:52 rushing noisily into the village.