The next morning, and very early in the morning, I was awaked by Uncle Beamish, who stood at my side.
"Look here," said he, "I've been outside. It's stopped snowin' and it's clearin' off. I've been to the barn and I've fed the horse, and I tell you what I'm in favor of doin'. There's nobody up yit, and I don't want to stay here and make no explanations to that old woman. I don't fancy gittin' into rows on Christmas mornin'. We've done all the good we can here, and the best thing we can do now is to git away before anybody is up, and leave a note sayin' that we've got to go on without losin' time, and that we will send another doctor as soon as possible. My sister's doctor don't live fur away from her, and I know she will be willin' to send for him. Then our duty will be done, and what the old woman thinks of us won't make no, difference to nobody."
"That plan suits me," said I, rising. "I don't want to stay here, and as I am not to be allowed to see the patient, there is no reason why I should stay. What we have done will more than pay for our supper and lodgings, so that our consciences are clear."
"But you must write a note," said Uncle Beamish. "Got any paper?"
I tore a leaf from my note-book, and went to the window, where it was barely light enough for me to see how to write.
"Make it short," said the old man. "I'm awful fidgety to git off."
I made it very short, and then, valises in hand, we quietly took our way to the kitchen.
"How this floor does creak!" said Uncle Beamish. "Git on your overcoat and shoes as quick as you can, and we'll leave the note on this table."
I had just shaken myself into my overcoat when Uncle Beamish gave a subdued exclamation, and quickly turning, I saw entering the kitchen a female figure in winter wraps and carrying a hand-bag.
"By George!" whispered the old man, "it's the patient!"