The party broke up. After that magic music, people wanted to be out of
the light and the stir; to carry its pure passion forth into the dark
places, to cherish and dream it over again.... Banneker sat before the
broad fireplace in the laxity of a still grief. Io was going away from
him. For a six-month. For a year. For an eternity. Going away from him,
bearing his whole heart with her, as she had left him after the night on
the river, left him to the searing memory of that mad, sweet cleavage of
her lips to his, the passionate offer of her awakened womanhood in
uttermost surrender of life at the roaring gates of death....
Footsteps, light, firm, unhesitant, approached across the broad floor
from the hallway. Banneker sat rigid, incredulous, afraid to stir, as
the sleeper fears to break the spell of a tenuous and lovely dream,
until Io's voice spoke his name. He would have jumped to his feet, but
the strong pressure of her hands on his shoulders restrained him.
"No. Stay as you are."
"I thought you had gone," he said thickly.
A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigal
display.
"Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?" said the voice of the
girl, Io, across the years.
"While I live.
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