"Bertie!" she cried as she seized the mother of little Emma by the arm.
The woman staggered and offered her glass.
"Drink," she cried, "drink and forget."
In a moment Zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in both
hands. A dozen hands clapped a devil's tattoo. A score of voices yelled
and laughed. The shriek of the music was drowned beneath the thunder of
stamping feet. Men reeled to singing women's arms, but above the roar
rose the song of the voice of Zora--she glided to the middle of the
room, standing tip-toed with skirts that curled and turned; she threw
back her head, raised the liquor to her lips, paused and looked into the
face of Miss Smith.
A silence fell like a lightning flash on the room as that white face
peered in at the door. Slowly Zora's hands fell and her eyes blinked as
though waking from some awful dream. She staggered toward the woman's
outstretched arms....
Late that night the girl lay close in Miss Smith's motherly embrace.
"I was going to hell!" she whispered, trembling.
"Why, Zora?" asked Miss Smith calmly.
"I couldn't find the Way--and I wanted to forget."
"People in hell don't forget," was the matter-of-fact comment. "And,
Zora, what way do you seek? The way where?"
Zora sat up in bed, and lifted a gray and stricken face.
"It's a lie," she cried, with hoarse earnedstness, "the way nowhere.
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