He went back to his work, but early in the morning the thought
of it lured him again. He must at least see the grave of his hope and
Zora's, and out of it resurrect new love and strength.
Perhaps she, too, might be there, waiting, weeping. He started at the
thought. He hurried forth sadly. The rain-drops were still dripping and
gleaming from the trees, flashing back the heavy yellow sunlight. He
splashed and stamped along, farther and farther onward until he neared
the rampart of the clearing, and put foot upon the tree-bridge. Then he
looked down. The lagoon was dry. He stood a moment bewildered, then
turned and rushed upon the island. A great sheet of dazzling sunlight
swept the place, and beneath lay a mighty mass of olive green, thick,
tall, wet, and willowy. The squares of cotton, sharp-edged, heavy, were
just about to burst to bolls! And underneath, the land lay carefully
drained and black! For one long moment he paused, stupid, agape with
utter amazement, then leaned dizzily against a tree.
The swamp, the eternal swamp, had been drained in its deepest fastness;
but, how?--how? He gazed about, perplexed, astonished. What a field of
cotton! what a marvellous field! But how had it been saved?
He skirted the island slowly, stopping near Zora's oak. Here lay the
reading of the riddle: with infinite work and pain, some one had dug a
canal from the lagoon to the creek, into which the former had drained by
a long and crooked way, thus allowing it to empty directly.
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