Vanderpool's finished accents. Her face went
suddenly gray. The Silver Fleece was not hers! It belonged--She rose
hastily. The door opened and they came in. The cutting must begin at
once, they all agreed.
"Is it ready, Zora?" inquired Helen.
"No," Zora quietly answered, "not quite, but tomorrow morning, early."
As soon as she was alone again, she sat down and considered. By and by,
while the family was at lunch, she folded the Silver Fleece carefully
and locked it in her new trunk. She would hide it in the swamp. During
the afternoon she sent to town for oil-cloth, and bade the black
carpenter at Miss Smith's make a cedar box, tight and tarred. In the
morning she prepared Mrs. Vanderpool's breakfast with unusual care. She
was sorry for Mrs. Vanderpool, and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not,
they could not, understand. What would happen to her? She did not know;
she did not care. The Silver Fleece had returned to her. Soon it would
be buried in the swamp whence it came. She had no alternative; she must
keep it and wait.
She heard the dressmaker's voice, and then her step upon the stair. She
heard the sound of Harry Cresswell's buggy, and a scurrying at the front
door. On came the dressmaker's footsteps--then her door was
unceremoniously burst open.
Helen Cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was wreathed
in smiles.
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