Repeatedly, Janet had misjudged her fellow man's motives and had to
correct her theory of him. It was, however, his own fault. He had a
way of going ahead without making explanations. He seemed deficient in
that sort of guile which would prompt a man to forefend suspicion of
his motives, or else he did not think it necessary, or, worse still,
did not care; and so his "high-handedness," as it had at first appeared
to her, took sinister color from her unusual situation and his too easy
advantage. Now she had about arrived at the comfortable conclusion
that Steve Brown was simply one who saw what ought to be done and did
it.
His acts had a way of doing their own explaining, uninterpreted by him,
so that, as they sorted together in that prairieful of time, he became
a less difficult study; and by the time she had thus learned him she
found herself in a most comfortable case. He was really a very simple
sort of man to understand, after all. While he had been very alarming
at first she had come to see into his mental state, and she liked, or
at least had grown accustomed to, his faults.
His lack of talkativeness had made the process seem rather slow at
first, and she had felt that more talk would have helped; but now she
had begun to think differently. She had thought him wanting in tact,
but the fact of the matter was that he did not need it. He did better
without it. She reflected, however, that his qualities were of the
kind that would easily remain undiscovered by other women. One had to
know him. He had been quite a revelation to her, perfectly simple. It
was no longer he that seemed strange to her, but rather the adventure
itself,--especially when she reflected that it happened such a little
while ago. He seemed to date back farther than that; indeed, her
knowing of him did not seem to be a thing of any date at all. And yet
he owed his existence, so far as she was concerned, to that mere chance
and her sudden dash out into the distance. It is strange how things
happen.
What had been his history up to the time that had happened? This
question had passed across her mind and brought with it a shade of
doubt; but it soon lost itself in his real presence; he was simply
Steve Brown.
She felt that she knew him. And now, on this evening, when he had
entertained her with his explanation of the ways of sheep, there came a
pause. After a while he rose to tend the fire, which had burnt low.
He scraped the embers together and put on the wood, and then, having
sat down again, he told her, rather deliberately, that on that day he
had caught her horse.
He had not broached this subject during all this time. And at supper,
before they became so interested in talking, there had been plenty of
opportunity. He went on to explain that he had not caught the horse
exactly; he had rather got it without the trouble of catching. The
animal had been so willing to form his acquaintance that it had only
been necessary to lay hold of him.
"And where is he now?" She was puzzled.
"I put him in an old sheep corral near the place I got him. I 've been
thinking I ought to go and get him to-night. That is, if you are not
afraid to stay alone."
_Why had he not informed her of this before_? Would not any one
naturally have done so? Here she was in this place all on account of
the escape of her horse; and yet he had not told her about this. There
was something strange here. Could it be that he would stoop to deceit!
Janet immediately--what she would not have believed she would
do--brought him to an accounting.
"Mr. Brown," she said sternly, "why did you not tell me of this before?"
"Well, Miss Janet, the point-blank truth is that I thought I would
rather spend the evening here."
He blenched perceptibly as he said it. Janet, seeing him now in a
state of mild propitiation, became suddenly aware of the schoolmistress
tone in which she had made him own up; and as he considered what way to
answer, she was more at a loss than he was.
"And besides," he added, with more assurance, "I intended to go for him
after you had gone to bed and say nothing about it. You might be
afraid if you knew I was not around--though there is n't any danger of
anything. But just now I got to thinking it over and when it came to
the point, I did not like to go away without your knowing it. I
thought I ought to tell you."
"Oh--that was it!"
"You see I did n't have any rope or bridle along when I caught him; so
I just put him in the corral. And I could n't bring him home by the
forelock when I had my arms full of lambs. I caught him just before
noon. If he waited till I got around to him again in the regular
course of herding, he would be pretty bad off for a drink."
This statement of the case decided her at once. As far as her own
needs were concerned, she could not ride the horse without a saddle
even if she dared mount him again, which she would not; but when she
considered the animal's thirst she decided to set her night fears aside.
"No; of course you could not bring him home that way. If you wish to
go for him I can stay here. I am not at all afraid."
"There is n't really anything to be afraid of," he said, rising. He
paused a moment, regarding her seriously. "I _could_ go for him in the
morning before I take the sheep out. But you see I would have to start
so early that it would still be night anyway."
"Oh, I shall not be afraid at all, Mr. Brown. There is nothing to be
afraid of."
This was how it happened that Janet, a while later, was sitting alone
gazing at the North Star. She was looking at that star in particular
because Steve Brown had called her attention to it by way of proving
that he would be able to find his way back to her. At intervals her
eye let go of the star and came back to the fire.
"_I thought I ought to tell you._"
Why ought? If there was no danger at all, and he felt that she would
be afraid, why did he change his mind? This interested her. For a
time the darkness was neglected. Evidently he had planned this and had
no doubts. If a woman is afraid to be alone in the dark, and there is
no danger at all, the most considerate course is to go away when she is
sleeping. He had his ideas of dealing with women. Why then had he
found any difficulty in doing it with her? "I thought I _ought_ to
tell you."
She had said she would not be the least bit afraid. And so she was
not--at first. Before long, however, the Night insisted upon being
seen and heard. Space and darkness began to demand human attention.
Unable to do otherwise, she looked up and contemplated the big
blackboard of night, and especially the North Star, to which the front
stars of the Dipper served as a pointer. And very soon she was wholly
engaged upon the silence.
It is no small thing, if you are not used to it, to occupy a lone
prairie at night. You face the absence of the whole human race. The
ominous stillness centres upon you with all the weight of Past,
Present, and Future. You are sitting up with the universe. And while
you sit there, and keep watch, you feel like the last survivor. Night
burns her solemn tapers over the living and the dead; there is now room
for anything to happen.
Suddenly and without warning, an awful outburst of language sprang from
the very throat of Night and claimed the starry silence for its own.
It was a clap of language which, coming so unexpectedly, seemed to make
the stars all blink at once. Then fell a hush much deeper than the
silence of before. There was a moment of suspense; then a sharp
gunlike report which seemed to crack the silence but not to break it.
Again the threatening voice sounded--this time nearer and more violent.
Janet sprang to her feet and made for the shack--not forgetting,
fortunately, the lamb. Being inside, she dropped the lamb on the bunk
and shut the door.
She had noticed in the corner that morning a narrow roof-board which
might have been used to hold the door shut; she felt for it at once.
When she had it in her hands, at last, she put one end against the door
and braced the other end against the wall opposite where it met the
floor. The board was so long that it would not go low enough to catch
securely against the door. She managed, however, by pressing down hard
on its middle, to spring it tightly into place. There being nothing
further to be done, except to keep as still as possible and hope for
the best, she proceeded to do so.
The lamb being less discreet, lifted its voice and called out for its
mother. There was an answering cry from the corral, after which there
seemed to be promise of quiet. Janet held her breath and got what
reassurance she could out of the fact that she was surrounded by walls,
between the shrunk boards of which the glare of the fire showed in
vertical streaks. As it was pitch dark inside, she could see nothing
of her protecting structure except in so far as it had the appearance
of being a cage of fire.
The threatening voice advanced by stages, coming surely on. Presently
she could hear the tramp of many feet, accompanied by the clanking of
chains. There was a dull knocking of heavy wheels. There was the
sharp crack of the whip-lash again, a quicker trampling of hoofs, a
louder sound of wheels and chains and a still louder vociferation of
commands. Janet could hardly have felt less confidence in that shack
if it had been the heavy artillery that was coming into position--which
it sounded very much like. There some sort of evolution performed and
a command to stop; then all was silent again. For a space, Janet heard
nothing.
Then a sound of footfalls told her that he was coming nearer. The door
was tried. When it did not open he pushed it harder. It gave a little
at the top, but, to her great relief, the brace held. After a little
she heard his measured tramp again. And again there was silence.
Janet, unable to endure the suspense, put her eye to the knot-hole.
The intruder, a tall piratical-looking figure, was standing between her
and the fire; she could see his general build in black. From the side
of his face there protruded a terrible moustache.
The man, after a period of silent thought, went and fetched some wood.
He was going to take possession of the fire. Janet kept her eye to the
knot-hole. When he had the fire burning better, he straightened up and
wandered round to the other side of it. At this, the sinister
silhouette, acting as a sort of dissolving view, came out in favor of
the old maxim that "there is a bright side to everything." It was no
less a person than Jonas Hicks. Little Jimmie Wanger's "Misser Donas!"
"Misser Donas dimme pop,"--Janet's mind took a jump to this. Morning
and night she had heard the sentence reiterated by the diminutive
Jimmie, the interpretation of which was, according to Rosie, that Mr.
Hicks had at one time presented Jimmie with a ball of pop-corn. It was
the only sentence Jimmie's mind cared to communicate. As it was the
only thing in life worth mentioning, he brought it out upon every
occasion; thus it had become recorded on her mind with phonographic
unforgettableness, and when she saw Mr. Hicks through the knot-hole his
act of benevolence repeated itself in the same words. The sight of
this benefactor in the guise of a cursing desperado made a clash among
the ideas in her mind; but Jimmie's sentence came out on top.
Besides hearing about him in this way, she had once had the honor of
meeting Mr. Hicks himself--this time also in connection with his
leaning toward children. He stopped at her schoolyard pump for a
drink, and having taken it he put his head in at the door and smiled--a
thing he never did upon compulsion. Being invited to enter, he did so,
taking the visitors' chair near the rostrum; and when she asked him,
according to the time-honored custom, whether he would not like to
address a few words to the school, he did that also, standing his whip
up in the corner and giving some very engaging advice upon the subject
of education, part of which, being of a hidden nature, was evidently
intended for the entertainment of the teacher. In this way he had been
her one and only visitor; and then, having had his jocose presence so
repeatedly called to mind at the Wangers', she had become disabled to
think of him as anything but the ministering angel of pop-corn.
Now her sole concern was to put in her appearance in as graceful a
manner as possible. Whatever sort of man he might really be, she knew
he was a person of quick intelligence who would certainly see any
indications of her taking fright at him. She wished to emerge at once,
smoothly and naturally. But when she put her hands to the tight
roofing-board she discovered that there was going to be difficulty in
the operation.
At first she tried to lift it by taking hold near the middle. As the
board had been bent down by her pressing it into place, her lifting
only made it grip tighter. It resisted her best efforts. Once and
again she tried, but without success; it was beyond her strength. She
could not get out!
"Oh, dear," breathed Janet in dismay.
She tried to force it out sideways. But this was even less practicable
if anything. Perceiving finally the nature of her mechanical
difficulty, she turned with new hopes to the end that was against the
door. As she expected, this proved to be the proper place to take
hold; but now the board moved only to make a noise that was amazing.
The method of its surprising operation was like the stuttering of a
stick when it is rubbed endwise on a box; but as this was a board and
as it operated against a rumbly shack, it reverberated like a giant
drum; it was an excellent apparatus for making artificial thunder. At
her very first effort it gave a little jump and made a noise sufficient
to put all the silence on the prairie to flight. She let go at once.
More deliberate efforts brought forth results still more tremendous; it
was something between a volley and a groan.
Now that she had done what she had, she felt that, embarrassing as it
was, she might as well get through with it and show herself promptly.
She might as well make the noise all at once as to make it piecemeal.
It was like operating a gatling gun. The board, being sprung down, had
a considerable distance to move before it would come free, but Janet,
having put her hands to it, stuck to it without flinching. It set the
whole shack a-going; those boards made such a noise as they had not
made since the day they went through the sawmill in long-drawn agony.
But she got it free. Being through with it, she set the board softly
in the corner; then she calmed herself and stepped forth.
So far as Janet could see, he considered it the most natural meeting in
the world. Jonas Hicks, fortunately, was not easily confused. She
lost no time, however, in beginning her explanation.
"You see, Mr. Hicks, I was going on horse-back from Wanger's farm up to
the county-seat to take the examination, and just as I was passing
here--"
Poor Janet; she had to tell that whole story over again. She told it
with particular attention to plausible detail; she wanted him to have a
perfect understanding of just how it was.
"Oh, yes--just so--I see," he would say promptly. "You just got lost
on the prairie. And you 've been stopping a few days with Steve."
As if it were nothing! Such ready belief and general
inconsequentiality bothered Janet. She did not know, of course, that
Jonas was hardly the sort of a Texan to feel comfortable in having a
woman stand before him in the defensive, stating her case. Upon her
first appearance he had concealed his surprise and rallied nobly to the
courtesies of the occasion; it was sufficient that he was in the
presence of the fair. Having heard enough to get the facts of her
adventure and grasp her present situation, it was hardly in him to play
the part of the unconvinced and give her a hearing through the
corroborating details--it was too inquisitorial for him. Suspicion?
He would have felt vitally impeached. He could not stand judicially;
he would have knocked down the man that did it. For this reason, while
he manifested sufficient interest, he escaped from his position by
finding casual employment; he examined the skillet, looked into the
provision box, and presently set about getting his supper, which, he
insisted, he was perfectly capable of doing. Janet persevered with her
story. He kept up his interest, making a mere anecdote out of her tale
and mitigating the atmosphere with the sound of pots and kettles.
"Well, now; if that don't beat all---- Naturally---- Just what would
happen--" Such was the tenor of his remarks. As if nothing more need
really be said.
To Janet, his too ready acceptance was peculiarly unsatisfying.
"And then," he remarked, just as she was coming to it, "I bet you
walked right round in a circle."
She wished most heartily that she could have replied, "Oh, no," and
explained that that was n't the way of it at all. She felt that her
whole story must seem to him an easily concocted, and a merely
necessary fiction. But as that was exactly what did happen she had to
accept this part of it from him and do her best with other details.
She wished he would pay more strict attention.
"And so," she finally ended, "as Mr. Brown went away just a while ago
to get my horse, I was rather frightened when I heard somebody coming.
I suppose I surprised you too."
"Well, yes; I must say you did, sort of. But of course when I heard
that noise I knew something was bound to come of it. But I managed to
save my appetite."
"There is n't very much left to eat," she said seriously.
"Oh, I 've got a plenty to eat right there in my wagon. Pie is good
enough for anybody. I 've got a real Northern pie."
He made a trip to the wagon and came back with the pie. He placed the
pie in the middle of the repast and arranged knife and fork on their
respective sides of it. Having it properly disposed and everything in
readiness he invited her to join him. Janet, because she had had
supper, was inclined to refuse. But there is something cordial about a
pie's countenance, especially if it be a pie of one's own country, and
still more especially if one has been living regularly on _frijole_
beans. She cut her regrets short and accepted. It seemed to her,
though, that all human companionship was being rather strictly confined
to the process of eating.
Plainly he considered her the guest; he took her cup and poured the
coffee himself.
"It is a beautiful evening, is n't it," remarked Janet.
"I was just going to say it was a nice night. Quite a flock of stars
out."
"A flock, did you say?"
"Well, sort of. I don't usually speak of them that way. Only on
special occasions. Hasn't Steve got any sweetenin'?"
He had just rattled the spoon in the sugar bowl and found it empty.
Janet was sorry to say that she had poured out the last grain of it
that very evening. She explained to him how the lamb had stepped into
a bowlful and thus contributed to the present shortage.
"Ain't Steve got a jug of molasses? He ought to have some sweetenin'
somewheres."
"Why, I did see a jug of something under the bed. I don't know what is
in it, though."
He went to investigate, getting down on the door-sill and entering the
shack on his knees. Presently he reappeared, smelling the cork.
"It ain't anything more or less than molasses," he reported.
As he sat down, the off wheeler of the team, which had been drawn up a
short distance from the fire, dropped on his paunch with a great
rattling of chain and began placidly chewing his cud. Following his
example, an ox in the middle of the string got down on his knees and
began chewing. At the same moment the lamb, which had fallen out of
bed and found his way out of the shack, announced himself with a bleat
and went toddling off toward the darkness. Janet jumped up at once and
went after him. Having captured him, she brought him back and stowed
him comfortably in her lap, drawing the edge of her skirt up over him.
"I suppose you've noticed, Miss Janet," he remarked, as he again turned
his attention to the jug, "that the animals out in these parts don't
know very much. They make people lots of trouble."
"Oh, I don't mind the trouble at all. You see, I saved this one's life
myself; that's why I am so interested in caring for him. He 's an
orphan."
"So I see. There's liable to be plenty of them. Are you partial to
orphans?"
"I could hardly help caring for him. Of course one naturally is."
Jonas again turned his attention to the jug, removing the cork and
placing it upside down on the ground. Janet held a saucer to receive
her share. The molasses was slow about making its appearance.
"This Golden Drip is a little late about coming. It's as stubborn as
old Doc Wharton used to be."
"Was he stubborn?" Janet asked, keeping the saucer level.
"He wasn't much of anything else. He was so stubborn that when he
drowned in the Comanche he floated upstream."
"Really?"
"Wasn't any doubt about it. Some people said that his foot must 'a'
been caught in the stirrup and the horse dragged him up that far from
where he went in. But I always claimed it was just natural."
As the molasses had not yet responded, he up-ended the jug still
farther and waited for results.
"I suppose," he queried, "that Steve has told you about things down
home. And all about his mother?"
"He told me that he lost his mother last winter."
"Ye-e-e-es," he said reflectively, drawing the word out as a thick
sluggish stream began to pile up in the saucer.
When she exclaimed "enough," he lowered the bottom of the jug and kept
the mouth over the saucer as the molasses continued to run from it.
"You can't stop that stuff by saying _Wo_," he remarked, whirling the
jug in his hands to stop the flow from the lip. "It is n't as thick,
though, as some that I 've seen."
"No!"
"I don't suppose Steve told you about the molasses I had with the 'J.
K.' outfit one winter."
"No, he did n't tell me anything about it."
"Well, that molasses was so thick that when you got too much on a
flapjack, all you had to do was to give the jug a few turns and wind
the molasses right up into it again. You could wrap it around the neck
of the jug till next time if you wanted to. If you 'll just excuse me
a moment, Miss Janet, I 'll put this jug back in home, sweet home,
again."
When he had put it where he found it, under the foot of the bed, he
returned to his place and passed the flapjacks. He insisted that she
try one at least.
"So he told you about his mother. And maybe about his house?"
"He did n't tell me much about his house--just about his mother. He
showed me the clipping about her. He did n't tell me anything in
particular about her."
"Well, that's all the same. Just the same as if he told you."
Janet sampled the pancake and complimented him upon his cooking, in
return for which he told her his recipe, which could be varied with
water "according to taste." There came a pause in which Mr. Hicks
seemed to be thinking.
"Can you play the piano?" he asked.
"I can play some," answered Janet. "But I am a little out of practice
lately."
"You 'd soon enough pick that up, as long as you know how."
The first lot of pancakes having dwindled, he got up and put on the
remainder of the batter.
As Janet declined his offer of more, he insisted that she start on the
pie.
"Are you fond of piano music?" she inquired as he sat down.
"Most any kind suits me. I suppose you can play most any kind of a
tune."
"Yes, mostly. As I say, I am a little out of practice lately. But my
music always comes back to me suddenly after a day or two."
"Steve has a piano," he said.
There came a hiatus in the conversation. Janet applied herself to the
pie.
"Mr. Hicks," she said suddenly, "I should think Mr. Brown would hardly
choose to come out here and do a sheep-herder's work. Especially as I
understand he does n't really have to."
"Well, it would seem that way, looking at it from this end. It's a
little lonesome out here when there is n't anybody around. But down
home there is n't anybody around his house, and that's lonesomer still.
There a person would notice it; but you don't expect anything else of a
shack. I don't suppose he has been on the inside of that house more
than once in two or three weeks."
"And yet he lives there?"
"Oh, yes. Gets along good, too, as far as that goes. He washes the
dishes on the porch and hangs the pan up outside. I guess he borrowed
some of his style from me. Steve would make a pretty good Ranger yet;
he hasn't got spoiled. But his ma told him he must n't ever join them."
"Why," exclaimed Janet, "does _he_ think of joining the Rangers?"
"Oh, no--not now. I don't suppose he ever thinks of such an idea. He
's got too many other things to tend to, anyway."
"Then, why should she tell him that?"
"That was just an idea she had. When he was a young fellow about
eighteen or nineteen he had an idea of being a Ranger, and he gave her
considerable worry, I guess. Steve was like his father was, and she
was always watching over him to see that he did n't get into danger.
Steve's ma was hardly more than up to his elbow. She looked like a
little girl alongside of him. She had real white hair."
"He must have been very fond of his mother."
"Thought as much of her as if he had picked her out himself. But as I
was going to tell---- Towards the last when she was down sick and
pretty near faded out, she seemed to think he was n't any more than a
little boy that had just grown up big. She always did seem to have
pretty much that idea anyway; and he never let on but what he was. As
long as he fetched and carried for her, and never got into any danger
except when he kept it secret, I don't suppose she ever exactly noticed
when he did grow up. And when she died you could see that she was
worried about what would become of him. I went for the doctor when she
died. Steve got out a fast horse and I made some pretty quick time.
When I got the doctor to the house I went into the room with him; and
you could see she was n 't going to hold out much longer. She seemed
to know it too. The last thing she said that night was, 'Good-bye,
Stevie; don't go and join the Rangers.'"
"And what did he say?"
"He told her he would n't--just as honest as if it was all so. That
satisfied her and she shut her eyes again, and that was the way she
went. 'Good-bye, Stevie, don't go and join the Rangers.'"
"He did n't usually tell her everything?" said Janet reflectively.
"Not till he saw fit. Old Steve was pretty much the same way. If it
was anything she 'd worry about, he 'd do it first. Then sometime when
it was all over, he 'd let the cat out of the bag. The old man sort of
spoiled her; and Steve just naturally took hold the same way."
"They always did tell her, then?"
"Sooner or later."
"He struck me as a man that was--rather fond of his mother."
"He thought she could n't be beat. She pretty near run him and old
Steve; they were two of a kind. They would n't 'a' dared to do
anything if she was against it. I guess that was the reason they went
ahead on their own hook on anything she might worry about. They were
afraid she 'd say no, I guess."
"Then she really did have something to say, after all," suggested Janet.
"She twisted them around her finger pretty much as it was. And that's
where Steve misses her. He's used to being run. He's lost. About a
week after she was buried he took her picture down out of the parlor
and hung it up nearer the kitchen where he could see it every day."
"But," exclaimed Janet, "I thought you said he hardly ever went into
the house!"
Jonas took a moment for consideration. Then he put his hand to his hip
pocket and felt around in it. Not finding what he was looking for, and
being evidently at a loss, he cast his eyes about on the vacant ground.
Presently his eye lit on Janet's yellow oil-coat. He reached out and
took it, and having folded it somewhat like a cushion, so that its back
presented a smooth surface, he again made search of his various
pockets. When he had hunted down the elusive lead-pencil he moistened
it on his tongue and set to work deliberately to draw on the slicker.
The result of his work was simply a square.
"That," he said, "is Steve's house."
Moistening the pencil again, he drew another square, somewhat smaller,
so that it just touched the other square corner to corner.
"That's the kitchen," he explained.
Again he drew a square; this one touching corners with the kitchen so
that it faced the side of the house.
"That's the milk-house," he said.
The three squares, one large and two smaller ones, being thus joined at
the corners, made a space between them. This space, surrounded on but
three sides, seemed to be open towards the road.
"Now, this place in between here," began Jonas, "is out of doors. But
it ain't really out of doors at all, because it has got a roof on it
and has a floor. It ain't a room exactly nor it ain't a porch. It's a
sort of an inside porch or an outside room. Now, the open side of this
place faces the road; but it is n't open to the road at all, because
there is a lattice-work there covered with vines. This lattice"--he
wet the pencil and set it to work again--"this lattice that closes this
place runs out from the side of the house, but it does n't join to the
corner of the milk-house, because you see that would close this place
all up so that you could n't come in from outside. It comes a distance
away from the corner of the milk-house; and that makes a door so that
you can go out into the yard without going through the kitchen. So you
see, you can go into this inside place without going through the house
at all."
Janet drew closer, the better to study the plan.
"Yes; I see how that is," she said.
"Well, now," he continued, "these three parts of the house have each
got a door opening into this inside place--the dining-room door, and
the kitchen door, and the milk-house door. And right here beside the
dining-room door is a bench where Steve washes up, and a looking-glass.
And right on the other side of this door is where he hung her picture.
That's how it is that he hardly ever goes into the house at all and he
's got her picture right in there where he does his work. He cooks
some in Aunt Lucy's kitchen, and eats and sets here. Aunt Lucy has got
a new place to work."
"I understand perfectly well now what you meant, Mr. Hicks. It is
perfectly plain."
She had rather awkwardly accused him of getting his tale tangled; and
now that he suddenly brought the whole weight of this explanation to
bear upon the point at issue, she felt a new striking-in of her shame.
She hoped that if there was to be any further explanation it would not
be in this particular connection.
"Now," said Jonas, wetting his pencil and setting to work on the
interior of the house, "right here in the main house is a long
dining-room. And a hall runs from this dining-room right straight
through onto the front porch. You can set right here at the head of
the table and eat and see everything that is passing on the road. And
there is a cool draught right through. Off to the right of this hall
is the parlor."
Jonas wetted the pencil unusually and worked it busily in the corner of
the parlor till he had made a very black and shiny little square.
Janet leaned farther over to watch him.
"And this here," he announced, "is the piano."
Janet resumed her erect position.
"It is a very convenient house in some ways," she said. "It has
certain advantages for a warm climate."
"It 's all figured out," said Jonas.
He made a dot by holding the pencil straight down and twirling it
round. This was about the middle of the "inside place." Janet leaned
over and became interested again.
"Now," he continued, "suppose it is a rainy day. Right here in the
middle of this inside place is a chain pump. You don't have to go
outside for anything. Or suppose it is a hot day. And maybe there is
a big company dinner to get. You can set here by the lattice where it
is cool and breezy,--the Gulf breeze comes right in that place by the
milk-house,--and keep track of what's going on in the kitchen. You
don't have to go right into the kitchen once in a week if you don't
want to. But it's a good thing to keep an eye on Aunt Lucy or the best
of them. They 're likely to hand out half of the provisions to the
rest of the niggers. You see it's fixed so that it don't make any
difference whether it's rainy or hot, or whether you 've got company
clothes on or not. You can set right here with your knitting and see
into the kitchen or out to the road--but people going past on the road
can't see you."
"It is an outside kitchen without the disadvantages of a separate
building, is n't it! And it looks like a part of the house, too."
"So does the milk-house. When you come out of the side door of the
dining-room the milkhouse is right in front of you. And to your right
is the kitchen door. Everything 's handy. Old Steve used to be a
great hand for company. And I guess Steve B. is likely to turn out
just as bad. So you see these are all three joined at the corners and
this place between is all floored and roofed over, and there is a
lattice and vines where you can see out onto the road. And it's nice
and cool. You can set right here in the shade and tend to everything."
Having submitted the plans to her contemplation awhile Jonas withdrew
the slicker as if he were considering any possible improvements.
Janet, being tired by her constrained position in viewing the
work,--for she had not moved entirely round to his side of the
supper,--straightened up and spent the interval in a new survey of the
stars. It rested her neck. As on the previous nights it was clear and
spacious. There were stars and stars. The biggest and brightest stood
out in unison; in between them and hanging far off in space were so
many others that all confusion seemed straightened out in the unity of
the infinite. It was all very beautiful--heaven is not disorder, after
all. And yet a coyote, complaining in the distance, seemed to set the
world to a false note. Her mind seemed tangled in light as her eye,
following the stars, was led along the devious invisible lines from one
to another. She had a feeling as if she would like to look up the
definition of "you" in the dictionary.
When she came back to earth again, Jonas was sitting there awaiting her
return. One would almost think he was waiting for an answer.
Janet looked at her watch. It was twenty minutes after ten--but she
did not know whether it was right or not.
"I hope I have n't been keeping you up, Miss Janet," said Jonas.
"Whenever your time comes to turn in, go right along. Don't consider
me company."
"Oh, it was n't that; I was just wondering what time it is. Do you
suppose, Mr. Hicks, that he will have any difficulty finding that horse
and getting it back here? I should think he would get lost."
"How long has he been gone?"
"A little over an hour."
"Oh, that ain't bad. You can't lose Steve."
"No, of course not. I thought it was longer."
"What time is it?"
"Twenty minutes after ten by my watch. But I don't really know what
time it is."
"Well, there ain't much use knowin'. Time is queer anyway on a
prairie. Sometimes it takes a considerable while for it to go past.
And then again, as the other fellow said, 'Time is shorter than it is
long.' Maybe if you are sleepy you 'd better go to bed."
"Well--I believe I will. I don't suppose I had better wait any longer.
Will you find a place to sleep? Maybe you will want to use my slicker."
"Oh, I 'm all right. I 'll just chase away these cattle and roll in
under the wagon. And if you should hear me serrynadin' you with a
horse-fiddle after a while, don't be scared. That's me snoring. I 'm
what they call a sound sleeper."
"Good-night, Mr. Hicks."
"Same to you, Miss Janet."