“Don’t speak to me,” she murmured; “I want to believe that this will last forever.”

Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by.  She stretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again.

“Swing me,” she ordered.

He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock.  Io stirred restlessly.

“You’ve broken the spell,” she accused softly.  “Weave me another one.”

“What shall it be?” He bent over the armful of books which he had brought out.

“You choose this time.”

“I wonder,” he mused, regarding her consideringly.

“Ah, you may well wonder!  I’m in a very special mood to-day.”

“When aren’t you, Butterfly?” he laughed.

“Beware that you don’t spoil it.  Choose well, or forever after hold your peace.”

He lifted the well-worn and well-loved volume of poetry.  It parted in his hand to the Rossetti sonnet.  He began to read at the lines: 

“When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze After their life sailed by, and hold their breath.”

Io opened her eyes again.

“Why did you select that thing?”

“Why did you mark it?”

“Did I mark it?”

“Certainly, I’m not responsible for the sage-blossom between the pages.”

“Ah, the sage!  That’s for wisdom,” she paraphrased lightly.

“Do you think Rossetti so wise a preceptor?”

“It isn’t often that he preaches.  When he does, as in that sonnet—­well, the inspiration may be a little heavy, but he does have something to say.”

“Then it’s the more evident that you marked it for some special reason.”

“What supernatural insight,” she mocked.  “Can you read your name between the lines?”

“What is it that you want me to do?”

“You mean to ask what it is that Mr. Rossetti wants you to do.  I didn’t write the sonnet, you know.”

“You didn’t fashion the arrow, but you aimed it.”

“Am I a good marksman?”

“I suppose you mean that I’m wasting my time here.”

“Surely not!” she gibed.  “Forming a link of transcontinental traffic.  Helping to put a girdle ’round the earth in eighty days—­or is it forty now?—­enlightening the traveling public about the three-twenty-four train; dispensing time-tables and other precious mediums of education—­”

“I’m happy here,” he said doggedly.

“Are you going to be, always?”

His face darkened with doubt.  “Why shouldn’t I be?” he argued.  “I’ve got everything I need.  Some day I thought I might write.”

“What about?” The question came sharp and quick.

He looked vaguely around the horizon.

“Oh, no, Ban!” she said.  “Not this.  You’ve got to know something besides cactuses and owls to write, these days.  You’ve got to know men.  And women,” she added, in a curious tone, with a suspicion of effort, even of jealousy in it.