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