Before that motionless, fateful
figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, dishevelled, clutching her
breast; she bent and rose--hesitated--seemed to plead; then turning,
clasped in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in Zora's
gown. Next instant she was staggering along the path whither Zora
pointed.
Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the
wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor.
Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the
little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary Taylor looked
up into Zora's face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know;
it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the
pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like,
regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully
veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. All
this lay in its darkness.
"Good-morning, Miss Taylor."
Mary, who was wont to teach this woman--so lately a child--searched in
vain for words to address her now. She stood bare-haired and hesitating
in the pale green light of the darkened morning. It seemed fit that a
deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of
the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin.
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