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.
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