vations through his influence with a local railroad
official whom he pried loose from a rubber of bridge at his club; while
Io and Esther, dinnerless except for a hasty box of sandwiches, were
back in Westchester packing and explaining to Mrs. Eyre. When the three
reconvened in Io's drawing-room the traveler was prepared for an
indefinite stay.

"If her condition is critical I'll wire for you," promised lo.
"Otherwise you mustn't come."

With that he must make shift to be content; that and a swift clasp of
her arms, a clinging pressure of her lips, and her soft "Good-bye. Oh,
good-bye! Love me every minute while I'm gone," before the tactful
Esther Forbes, somewhat miscast in the temporary role of Propriety,
returned from a conversation with the porter to say that they really
must get off that very instant or be carried westward to the eternal
scandal of society which would not understand a triangular elopement.

Loneliness no longer beset Banneker, even though Io was farther
separated from him than before in the unimportant reckoning of
geographical miles; for now she was on his errand. He held her by the
continuous thought of a vital common interest. In place of the former
bereavement of spirit was a new and consuming anxiety for Camilla Van
Arsdale. Io's first telegram from Manzanita went far to appease that.
Miss Van Arsdale had suffered a severe shock, but was now on the road to
recovery: Io would stay indefinitely: there was no reason for Banneker's
coming out for the present: in fact, the patient definitely prohibited
it: letter followed.

The letter, when it came, forced a cry, as of physical pain, from
Banneker's throat. Camilla Van Arsdale was going blind. Some obscure
reflex of the heart trouble had affected the blood supply of the eyes,
and the shock of discovering this had reacted upon the heart. There was
no immediate danger; but neither was there ultimate hope of restored
vision. So much the eminent oculist whom Io had brought from Angelica
City told her.

Your first thought (wrote Io) will be to come out here at once.
Don't. It will be much better for you to wait until she needs you more;
until you can spend two or three weeks or a month with her. Now I
can help her through the days by reading to her and walking with her.
You don't know how happy it makes me to be here where I first knew
you, to live over every event of those days. Your movable shack is
almost as it used to be, though there is no a