eantime the glory
was about him; he could remember, recall, repeat, interpret....

For the hundredth time--or was it the thousandth?--he reconstructed that
last hour of theirs together in the station at Miradero, waiting for the
train. What had they said to each other? Commonplaces, mostly, and at
times with effort, as if they were making conversation. They two! After
that passionate and revealing moment between life and death on the
island. What should he have said to her? Begged her to stay? On what
basis? How could he?.... As the distant roar of the train warned them
that the time of parting was close, it was she who broke through that
strange restraint, turning upon him her old-time limpid and resolute
regard.

"Ban; promise me something."

"Anything."

"There may be a time coming for us when you won't understand."

"Understand what?"

"Me. Perhaps I shan't understand myself."

"You'll always understand yourself, Io."

"If that comes--when that comes--Ban, there's something in the book,
_our_ book, that I've left you to read."

"'The Voices'?"

"Yes. I've fastened the pages together so that you can't read it too
soon."

"When, then?"

"When I tell you ... No; not when I tell you. When--oh, when you must!
You'll read it, and afterward, when you think of me, you'll think of
that, too. Will you?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Always."

"No matter what happens?"

"No matter what happens."

"It's like a litany." She laughed tremulously.... "Here's the train.
Good-bye, dear."

He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples, the light, swift
pressure of cold lips on his mouth.... While the train pulled out, she
stood on the rear platform, looking, looking. She was very still. All
motion, all expression seemed centered in the steady gaze which dwindled
away from him, became vague ... featureless ... vanished in a lurch of
the car.

Banneker, at home again, planted a garden of dreams, and lived in it,
mechanically acceptant of the outer world, resentful of any intrusion
upon that flowerful retreat. Even of Miss Van Arsdale's.

Not for days thereafter did the Hunger come. It began as a little
gnawing doubt and disappointment. It grew to a devastating, ravening
starvation of the heart, for sign or sight or word of Io Welland. It
drove him out of his withered seclusion, to seek Miss Van Arsdale, in
the hope of hearing Io's name spoken. But Miss Van Arsdale scarcely
referred to Io. She watched Banneker