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 with unconcealed anxiety.

...  Why had there been no letter?...

Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting.  Avidly he opened it.  It was the promised Bible, mailed from New York City.  On the fly-leaf was written “I.O.W. to E.B.”—­nothing more.  He went through it page by page, seeking marked passages.  There was none.  The doubt settled down on him again.  The Hunger bit into him more savagely.