her.
“Come back with me,” she invited after acknowledging his greeting.
“I was going over to see Miss Welland.”
“Wait until to-morrow. She is resting.”
A shade of disappointment crossed his face. “All right,” he agreed. “I wanted to tell her that her messages got off all right.”
“I’ll tell her when I go back.”
“That’ll be just as well,” he answered reluctantly. “How is she feeling?”
“Exhausted. She’s been under severe strain.”
“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor? I could ride—”
“She won’t listen to it. And I think her head is all right now. But she ought to have complete rest for several days.”
“Well, I’m likely to be busy enough,” he said simply. “The schedule is all shot to pieces, and, unless this rain lets up, we’ll have more track out. What do you think of it?”
Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the thrashing pines to the rush of the gray-black clouds. “I think we’re in for a siege of it,” was her pronouncement.
They rode along single file in the narrow trail until they emerged into the open. Then Banneker’s horse moved forward, neck and neck with the other. Miss Van Arsdale reined down her uneasy roan.
“Ban.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever seen anything like her before?”
“Only on the stage.”
She smiled. “What do you think of her?”
“I hardly know how to express it,” he answered frankly, though hesitantly. “She makes me think of all the poetry I’ve ever read.”
“That’s dangerous. Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl she is?”
“What kind?” he repeated. He looked startled.
“Of course you haven’t. How should you? I’m going to tell you.”
“Do you know her, Miss Camilla?”
“As well as if she were my own sister. That is, I know her type. It’s common enough.”
“It can’t be,” he protested eagerly.
“Oh, yes! The type is. She is an exquisite specimen of it; that’s all. Listen, Ban. Io Welland is the petted and clever and willful daughter of a rich man; a very rich man he would be reckoned out here. She lives in a world as remote from this as the moon.”
“Of course. I realize that.”
“It’s well that you do. And she’s as casual a visitant here as if she had floated down on one moonbeam and would float back on the next.”
“She’ll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up,” observed the station-agent grimly.
“I wish she would,” returned Miss Van Arsdale.
“Is she in your way?”
“I shouldn’t mind that if I could keep her out of yours,” she answered bluntly.
Banneker turned a placid and smiling face to her. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you, Miss Camilla?”
“I think that Io Welland, without ill-intent at all, but with a period of idleness on her hands, is a dangerous creature to have around. She’s too lovely and, I think, too restless a spirit.”
“She’s lovely, all right,” assented Banneker.
“Well; I’ve warned you, Ban,” returned his friend in slightly dispirited tones.
“What do you want me to do? Keep away from your place? I’ll do whatever you say. But it’s all nonsense.”
“I dare say it is,” sighed Miss Van Arsdale. “Forget that I’ve said it, Ban. Meddling is a thankless business.”
“You could never meddle as far as I’m concerned,” said Banneker warmly. “I’m a little worried,” he added thoughtfully, “about not reporting her as found to the company. What do you think?”
“Too official a question for me. You’ll have to settle that for yourself.”
“How long does she intend to stay?”
“I don’t know. But a girl of her breeding and habits would hardly settle herself on a stranger for very long unless a point were made of urging her.”
“And you won’t do that?”
“I certainly shall not!”
“No; I suppose not. You’ve been awfully good to her.”
“Hospitality to the shipwrecked,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale as she crossed the track toward the village.
Late afternoon, darkening into wilder winds and harsher rain, brought the hostess back to her lodge dripping and weary. On a bearskin before the smouldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind her head, her eyes half closed and dreamy. Without directly responding to the other’s salutation she said:
“Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?”
“What is it?”
“I’m tired,” said Io. “So tired!”
“Stay, of course,” responded the hostess, answering the implication heartily, “as long as you will.”
“Only two or three days, until I recover the will to do something. You’re awfully kind.” Io looked very young and childlike, with her languid, mobile face irradiated by the half-light of the fire. “Perhaps you’ll play for me sometime.”
“Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of my hands.”
“Thank you. And sing?” suggested the girl diffidently.
A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman’s face. “No,” she said harshly. “I sing for no one.”
“I’m sorry,” murmured the girl.
“What have you been doing all day?” asked Miss Van Arsdale, holding out her hands toward the fire.
“Resting. Thinking. Scaring myself with bogy-thoughts of what I’ve escaped.” Io smiled and sighed. “I hadn’t known how worn out I was until I woke up this morning. I don’t think I ever before realized the meaning of refuge.”
“You’ll recover from the need of it soon enough,” promised the other. She crossed to the piano. “What kind of music do you want? No; don’t tell me. I should be able to guess.” Half turning on the bench she gazed speculatively at the lax figure on the rug. “Chopin, I think. I’ve guessed right? Well, I don’t think I shall play you Chopin to-day. You don’t need that kind of—of—well, excitation.”
Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with a little ripple of melody, MacDowell’s lovely, hurrying, buoyant “Improvisation,” with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surges of sound, sinking at the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause or transition she passed on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of the strangely misnamed “Erotique,” plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillment almost hymnal: the brusque pursuing minors of the wedding music, and the diamond-shower of notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern sunlight imprisoned in melody. Then, the majestic swing of Åse’s death-chant, glorious and mystical.
“Are you asleep?” asked the player, speaking through the chords.
“No,” answered Io’s tremulous voice. “I’m