"All right," interrupted the woman, moving toward an inner door. "Just wait here for a minute. I'm going up to tell her."
"I don't know this place," said Uncle Beamish, as we stood by the kitchen stove, "but I expect it belongs to a widow woman."
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"'Cause she said she was goin' to tell HER. If there had been a man in the house, she would have gone to tell HIM."
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.