Silently they contemplated the land; it seemed
indeed a hopeless task. Then they looked at each other in sudden,
unspoken fear of failure.
"If we only had a mule!" he sighed. Immediately her face lighted and her
lips parted, but she said nothing. He presently bounded to his feet.
"Never mind, Zora. To-morrow is Saturday, and I'll work all day. We just
_will_ get it done--sometime." His mouth closed with determination.
"We won't work any more today, then?" cried Zora, her eagerness
betraying itself despite her efforts to hide it.
"_You_ won't," affirmed Bles. "But I've got to do just a little--"
But Zora was adamant: he was tired; she was tired; they would rest.
To-morrow with the rising sun they would begin again.
"There'll be a bright moon tonight," ventured Bles.
"Then I'll come too," Zora announced positively, and he had to promise
for her sake to rest.
They went up the path together and parted diffidently, he watching her
flit away with sorrowful eyes, a little disturbed and puzzled at the
burden he had voluntarily assumed, but never dreaming of drawing back.
Zora did not go far. No sooner did she know herself well out of his
sight than she dropped lightly down beside the path, listening intently
until the last echo of his footsteps had died away. Then, leaving the
cabin on her right, and the scene of their toil on her left, she cut
straight through the swamp, skirted the big road, and in a half-hour
was in the lower meadows of the Cresswell plantations, where the tired
stock was being turned out to graze for the night.
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