As if shot, the man stood still, face upturned,
hair drenched, hands trembling, then he sat down on the steps.
Giving the pitcher to Van Landing, she told him to fill it and pointed
to a faucet in the hall. "I don't think he'll need another; one is
generally enough. I've seen him like this before. His wife won't throw
water in his face, but I throw." She leaned farther over the railing.
"If you'll be quiet and go back quick I won't put any more water on
you; it's awful cold, but if you don't--"
Slowly, and as if dazed, the man on the steps got up, and as he
disappeared Carmencita nodded to her visitor to go back to her Father,
now standing by the table. Closing the door, she came toward him and
pushed him again in his chair, smoothing lightly the snow-white hair
and kissing the trembling fingers, then at his feet she took her seat.
"I'm so sorry he waked you. It was just old Beer-Barrel. He oughtn't
to drink"--she raised her eyes to Van Landing's--"but a man who's got
a wife like his is bound to do something, and sometimes I wish I could
put the water on her instead of him.
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