More Jonathan Papers | Page 9

carbon that had once
been syrup-froth; we laid it gently beside the oven, for a keepsake.
Then we poured water in the pan, and steam rose hissing to the stars.
"Does it leak?" faltered Janet.
"Leak!" I said. I was on my knees now, watching the water stream
through the parted seam of the pan bottom, down into the ashes below.
"The question is," I went on as I got up, "did it boil away because it
leaked, or did it leak because it boiled away?"
"I don't see that it matters much," said Janet. She was showing
symptoms of depression at this point.
"It matters a great deal," I said. "Because, you see, we've got to tell
Jonathan, and it makes all the difference how we put it."
"I see," said Janet; then she added, experimentally, "Why tell
Jonathan?"
"Why, Janet, you know better! I wouldn't miss telling Jonathan for

anything. What is Jonathan for!"
"Well--of course," she conceded. "Let's do dishes."
We sat before the fire that evening and I read while Janet knitted.
Between my eyes and the printed page there kept rising a vision--a
vision of black crust, with winking red embers smoldering along its
broken edges. I found it distracting in the extreme.{~HORIZONTAL
ELLIPSIS~}
At some time unknown, out of the blind depths of the night, I was
awakened by a voice:--
"It's beginning to rain. I think I'll just go out and empty what's near the
house."
"Janet!" I murmured, "don't be absurd."
"But it will dilute all that sap."
"There isn't any sap to dilute. It won't be running at night." After a
while the voice, full of propitiatory intonations, resumed:--
"My dear, you don't mind if I slip out. It will only take a minute."
"I do mind. Go to sleep!"
Silence. Then:--
"It's raining harder. I hate to think of all that sap--"
"You don't have to think!" I was quite savage. "Just go to sleep--and let
me!" Another silence. Then a fresh downpour. The voice was
pleading:--
"Please let me go! I'll be back in a minute. And it's not cold."
"Oh, well--I'm awake now, anyway. I'll go." My voice was tinged with
that high resignation that is worse than anger. Janet's tone changed

instantly:--
"No, no! Don't! Please don't! I'm going. I truly don't mind."
"I'm going. I don't mind, either, not at all."
"Oh, dear! Then let's not either of us go."
"That was my idea in the first place."
"Well, then, we won't. Go to sleep, and I will too."
"Not at all! I've decided to go."
"But it's stopped raining. Probably it won't rain any more."
"Then what are you making all this fuss for?"
"I didn't make a fuss. I just thought I could slip out--"
"Well, you couldn't. And it's raining very hard again. And I'm going."
"Oh, don't! You'll get drenched."
"Of course. But I can't bear to have all that sap diluted."
"It doesn't run at night. You said it didn't."
"You said it did."
"But I don't really know. You know best."
"Why didn't you think of that sooner? Anyway, I'm going."
"Oh, dear! You make me feel as if I'd stirred you up--"
"You have," I interrupted, sweetly. "I won't deny that you have stirred
me up. But now that you have mentioned it"--I felt for a match--"now
that you have mentioned it, I see that this was the one thing needed to

make my evening complete, or perhaps it's morning--I don't know."
We found the dining-room warm, and soon we were equipped in those
curious compromises of vesture that people adopt under such
circumstances, and, with lantern and umbrella, we fumbled our way out
to the trees. The rain was driving in sheets, and we plodded up the road
in the yellow circle of lantern-light wavering uncertainly over the
puddles, while under our feet the mud gave and sucked.
"It's diluted, sure enough," I said, as we emptied the pails. We crawled
slowly back, with our heavy milk-can full of sap-and-rain-water, and
went in.
The warm dining-room was pleasant to return to, and we sat down to
cookies and milk, feeling almost cozy.
"I've always wanted to know how it would be to go out in the middle of
the night this way," I remarked, "and now I know."
"Aren't you hateful!" said Janet.
"Not at all. Just appreciative. But now, if you haven't any other plan,
we'll go back to bed."
It was half-past eight when we waked next morning. But there was
nothing to wake up for. The old house was filled with the rain-noises
that only such an old house knows. On the little windows the drops
pricked sharply; in the fireplace with the straight flue they fell, hissing,
on the embers. On the porch roofs the rain made