The old clock had nearly marked the hour of midnight as Hanz came out of
the little room in an apparently agitated state of mind. The dog raised
his head and moved his tail as Hanz approached the fire and threw some
sticks on. "Dere's no postponin' it; and it sthorms so," muttered Hanz,
shaking his head. Then he put on his big coat and boots, drew his cap
over his ears, and went out into the storm, leaving the big dog on
guard. How he struggled through the snow that night, what difficulty he
had in waking up his two nearest neighbors, and getting one of them to
send his son for Doctor Critchel, and what was said about such things
always happening of such a night, I will leave to the imagination of my
reader.

It was nearly an hour before Hanz returned, bringing with him two stout,
motherly-looking dames. The storm had handled their garments somewhat
roughly, and they were well covered with snow. The old dog was pleased
to see them, and wagged them a welcome, and made sundry other signs of
his affection. And when they had shaken the snow from their garments,
and taken seats by the fire, Hanz gave them fresh pipes, which they
lighted and proceeded to enjoy while he went to preparing something warm
for their stomachs, and doing various other little things regarded as
indispensable on such an occasion.

The storm had caught the little house by the shoulders, and was giving
it one of its most violent shakes, when the dog suddenly started up,
gave a growl, then walked solemnly to the door and listened. A footstep
in the old veranda, then the stamping of feet, and a knock at the door
came. It was Critchel, the little snuffy doctor, who entered, looking
for all the world like an enlarged snow-ball. These were the occasions
in which the doctor rose into the most importance, and as his coming had