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."

Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with a
little ripple of melody, MacDowell's lovely, hurrying, buoyant