"But there are more--many, many more--worlds on worlds of things--you
have not dreamed of."
She stared at him, open-eyed, and a wonder crept upon her face battling
with the old assurance. Then she looked down at her bare brown feet and
torn gown.
"I've got a little money, Zora," he said quickly.
But she lifted her head.
"I'll earn mine," she said.
"How?" he asked doubtfully.
"I'll pick cotton."
"Can you?"
"Course I can."
"It's hard work."
She hesitated.
"I don't like to work," she mused. "You see, mammy's pappy was a king's
son, and kings don't work. I don't work; mostly I dreams. But I can
work, and I will--for the wonder things--and for you."
So the summer yellowed and silvered into fall. All the vacation days
Bles worked on the farm, and Zora read and dreamed and studied in the
wood, until the land lay white with harvest. Then, without warning, she
appeared in the cotton-field beside Bles, and picked.
It was hot, sore work. The sun blazed; her bent and untrained back
pained, and the soft little hands bled. But no complaint passed her
lips; her hands never wavered, and her eyes met his steadily and
gravely. She bade him good-night, cheerily, and then stole away to the
wood, crouching beneath the great oak, and biting back the groans that
trembled on her lips. Often, she fell supperless to sleep, with two
great tears creeping down her tired cheeks.
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