As yet there was no
sign visible from his far-horizoned home, except a filmy and changeful
wreath of palest cloud with which Mount Carstairs was bedecked. Banneker
decided for silence.
Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, but
Io looked piteously worn and tired.
"You've had no rest," he accused her, away from the sick woman's
hearing.
"Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep," said Io.
"But you've got to have sleep," he insisted. "Let me stay and look after
her to-night."
"It wouldn't be of any use."
"Why not?"
"I shouldn't sleep anyway. This house is haunted by spirits of unrest,"
said the girl fretfully. "I think I'll take a blanket and go out on the
desert."
"And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantula
nestling in your ear. Don't think of it."
"Ban," called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room,
clear and firm as he had ever heard it.
He went in. She stretched out a hand to him. "It's good to see you, Ban.
Have I worried you? I shall be up and about again to-morrow."
"Now, Miss Camilla," protested Banneker, "you mustn't--"
"I'm going to get up to-morrow," repeated the other immutably. "Don't be
absurd about it. I'm not ill.
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