This was true. The slowly uplifted hoofs of the horse descended quietly into the soft snow, and the sleigh-runners slipped along without a sound.
"Drive straight for the gate, doctor," whispered Uncle Beamish. "It don't matter nothin' about goin' over flower-beds and grass-plats in such weather."
I followed his advice, for no roadway could be seen. But we had gone but a short distance when the horse suddenly stopped.
"What's the matter?" asked Miss Burroughs, in a low voice. "Is it too deep for him?"
"We're in a drift," said Uncle Beamish. "But it's not too deep. Make him go ahead, doctor."
I clicked gently and tapped the horse with the whip, but he did not move.
"What a dreadful thing," whispered Miss Burroughs, leaning forward, "for him to stop so near the house! Dr. Glover, what does this mean?" And, as she spoke, she half rose behind me. "Where did Sir Rohan come from?"
"Who's he?" asked Uncle Beamish, quickly.
"That horse," she answered. "That's my aunt's horse. She sold him a few days ago."
"By George!" ejaculated Uncle Beamish, unconsciously raising his voice a little. "Wilson bought him, and his bringin' us here is as plain as A B C. And now he don't want to leave home."