"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."