"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 se's death-chant, glorious and mystical.

"Are you asleep?" asked the player, speaking through the chords.

"No," answered Io's tremulous voice. "I'm being very unhappy. I love it!"

Bang! It was a musical detonation, followed by a volley of chords and then a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stood over her guest. "There!" she said. "That's better than letting you pamper yourself with the indulgence of unhappiness."

"But I want to be unhappy," pouted Io. "I want to be pampered."

"Naturally. You always will be, I expect, as long as there are men in the world to do your bidding. However, I must see to supper."

So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss Van Arsdale's music, or read, or took little walks between showers. No further mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of the visit. She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, though her perfect and effortless courtesy preserved her from being antipathetic to any one beneath her own roof. How much her silence as to the unusual situation was inspired by consideration for her guest, how much due to natural reserve, Io could not estimate.

A little less reticence would have been grateful to her as the hours spun out and she felt her own spirit expand slowly in the calm. It was she who introduced the subject of Banneker.

"Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned his responsibilities so far as I'm concerned," she observed.

"Because he hasn't come to see you?"

"Yes. He said he would."

"I told him not to."

"I see," said Io, after thinking it over. "Is he a little--just a wee, little bit queer in his head?"

"He's one of the sanest persons I've ever known. And I want him to stay so."