I had an invitation to spend the Christmas of that year with
the Collingwoods, who had opened their country house, about
twelve miles from Warburton, for the entertainment of a holiday
house party. I had gladly accepted the invitation, and on the
day before Christmas I went to the livery stable in the village
to hire a horse and sleigh for the trip. At the stable I met
Uncle Beamish, who had also come to hire a conveyance.

"Uncle Beamish," as he was generally called in the village,
although I am sure he had no nephews or nieces in the place,
was an elderly man who had retired from some business, I know not
what, and was apparently quite able to live upon whatever income
he had. He was a good man, rather illiterate, but very shrewd.
Generous in good works, I do not think he was fond of giving away
money, but his services were at the call of all who needed them.

I liked Uncle Beamish very much, for he was not only a good
story-teller, but he was willing to listen to my stories, and
when I found he wanted to hire a horse and sleigh to go to the
house of his married sister, with whom he intended to spend
Christmas, and that his sister lived on Upper Hill turnpike, on
which road the Collingwood house was situated, I proposed that we
should hire a sleigh together.

"That will suit me," said Uncle Beamish. "There couldn't
have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Less than
half a mile after you turn into the turnpike, you pass my
sister's house. Then you can drop me and go on to the
Collingwoods', which I should say isn't more than three miles