Having completed the letter, his next process was to run through the papers, giving in full any news or editorials on State politics.  This was a task demanding the greatest mental concentration and alertness, for he had built up a contemporary history out of his imagination, and must keep all the details congruous and logical.  Several times, with that uncanny retentiveness of memory developed in the blind, she had all but caught him; but each time his adroitness saved the day.  Later, while he was at work in the room which she had set aside for his daily writing, she would answer the letter on the typewriter, having taught herself to write by position and touch, and he would take her reply for posting.  Her nurse and companion, an elderly woman with a natural aptitude for silence and discretion, was Banneker’s partner in the secret.  The third member of the conspiracy was the physician who came once a week from Angelica City because he himself was a musician and this slowly and courageously dying woman was Royce Melvin.  Between them they hedged her about with the fiction that victoriously defied grief and defeated death.

Camilla Van Arsdale got up from her couch and walked with confident footsteps to the piano.

“Ban,” she said, seating herself and letting her fingers run over the keys, “can’t you substitute another word for ‘muffled’ in the third line?  It comes on a high note—­upper g—­and I want a long, not a short vowel sound.”

“How would ‘silenced’ do?” he offered, after studying the line.

“Beautifully.  You’re a most amiable poet!  Ban, I think your verses are going to be more famous than my music.”

“Never that,” he denied.  “It’s the music that makes them.”

“Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?”

“Yes.  He’s taking them.  He wants to print two in each issue and call them ‘Far Perspectives.’”

“Oh, good!” she cried.  “But, Ban, fine as your work is, it seems a terrible waste of your powers to be out here.  You ought to be in New York, helping the governor put through his projects.”

“Well, you know, the doctor won’t give me my release.”

(Presently he must remember to have a coughing spell.  He coughed hollowly and well, thanks to assiduous practice.  This was part of the grim and loving comedy of deception:  that he had been peremptorily ordered back to Manzanita on account of “weak lungs,” with orders to live in his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds.  He was gaining, but with well-considered slowness.)

“But when you can, you’ll go back and help him, even if I’m not here to know about it, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes:  I’ll go back to help him when I can,” he promised, as heartily as if he had not made the same promise each time that the subject came up.  There was still a good deal of the wistful child about the dying woman.