“Pierre, I wonder if a shower-bath hasn’t been arranged just where our bed stands? because drops of water are falling in my face once in a while.  They are lovely and cool, but they trickle off on the pillow, and that don’t feel nice.”

I lit a candle, and examined the ceiling; directly over Sophronia’s head there was a heavy blotch, from the centre of which the water was dropping.

“Another result of taking that liquid blue-eyed agent’s word,” I growled, hastily moving the bed and its occupant, and setting the basin on the floor to catch the water and save the carpet.

“Why, Pierre!” exclaimed Sophronia, as I blew out the light, “how unjust you are.  Who could expect an agent to go over the roof like a cat, and examine each shingle?  Gracious! it’s dropping here, too!”

Again I lighted the candle and moved the bed, but before I had time to retire Sophronia complained that a stream was trickling down upon her feet.  The third time the bed was moved water dropped down upon my pillow, and the room was too small to re-locate the bed so that none of these unauthorized hydrants should moisten us.  Then we tried our spare chamber, but that was equally damp.

Suddenly I bethought myself of another war relic; and, hurrying to an old trunk, extracted an india-rubber blanket.  This, if we kept very close together, kept the water out, but almost smothered us.  We changed our positions by sitting up, back to back, and dropping the rubber blanket over our heads.  By this arrangement the air was allowed to circulate freely, and we had some possibilities of conversation left us; but the effect of the weight of the blanket resting largely upon our respective noses was somewhat depressing.  Suddenly Sophronia remarked: 

“Oh, Pierre! this reminds me of those stories you used to tell me, of how you and all your earthly treasures used to hide under this blanket from the rain!”

The remark afforded an opportunity for a very graceful reply, but four hours elapsed before I saw it.  Sophronia did not seem hurt by my negligence, but almost instantly continued: 

“It would be just like war, if there was only some shooting going on.  Can’t you fire your revolver out of the window, Pierre?”

“I could,” I replied, “if that blue-eyed agent was anywhere within range.”

“Why, Pierre, I think you’re dreadfully unjust to that poor man. He can’t go sleeping around in all the rooms of each of his cottages every time there’s a rainstorm, to see if they leak.  Besides—­oh, Pierre!  I’ve a brilliant idea!  It can’t be wet down-stairs.”