"But I can't go! I! The idea of turning out of my warm bed and exposing myself to a snow-storm this time of night!"
"Excuse me for insisting, sir; but this is an official duty," said the parson mildly but firmly.
"I'll--I'll throw up my commission to-morrow," growled the old man.
"To-morrow you may do that; but meanwhile, to-night, being still in the commission of the peace, you are bound to get up and go with me to this woman's bedside."
"And what the demon is wanted of me there?"
"To receive her dying deposition."
"To receive a dying deposition! Good Heaven! was she murdered, then?" exclaimed the old man in alarm, as he started out of bed and began to draw on his nether garments.
"Be composed; she was not murdered," said the pastor.
"Well, then, what is it? Dying deposition! It must concern a crime," exclaimed the old man, hastily drawing on his coat.
"It does concern a crime."
"What crime, for the love of Heaven?"
"I am not at liberty to tell you. She will do that."
"Wool, go down and rouse up Jehu, and tell him to put Parson Goodwin's mule in the stable for the night. And tell him to put the black draught horses to the close carriage, and light both of the front lanterns--for we shall have a dark, stormy road----Shut the door, you infernal----I beg your pardon, parson, but that villain always leaves the door ajar after him."
The good pastor bowed gravely, and the major completed his toilet by the time the servant returned and reported the carriage ready.
It was dark as pitch when they emerged from the hall door out into the front portico, before which nothing could be seen but two red bull's-eyes of the carriage lanterns, and nothing heard but the dissatisfied whinnying and pawing of the horses.