The bed was
made, the few utensils washed, polished, and hung up; on the table a
handful of the alamo's bright leaves in a vase gave a touch of color.
In the long chair (7 T 4031 of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue) sat Io. A
book lay on her lap, the book of "The Undying Voices." Her eyes were
closed. Banneker reached out a hand to the door lintel for support.
A light tremor ran through Io's body. She opened her eyes, and fixed
them on Banneker. She rose slowly. The book fell to the floor and lay
open between them. Io stood, her arms hanging straitly at her side, her
whole face a lovely and loving plea.
"Please, Ban!" she said, in a voice so little that it hardly came to his
ears.
Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surprise
of her presence.
"Please, Ban, forgive me." She was like a child, beseeching. Her firm
little chin quivered. Two great, soft, lustrous tears welled up from the
shadowy depths of the eyes and hung, gleaming, above the lashes. "Oh,
aren't you going to speak to me!" she cried.
At that the bonds of his languor were rent. He leapt to her, heard the
broken music of her sob, felt her arms close about him, her lips seek
his and cling, loath to relinquish them even for the passionate murmurs
of her love and longing for him.
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