Go down to the South where we
writhe. Strive--work--build--hew--lead--inspire! God calls. Will you
hear? Come to Jesus. The harvest is waiting. Who will cry: 'Here am I,
send me!'"
Zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and
answered the call: "Here am I--send me."
And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars; around
her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang some new song
of peace.
"What is the matter, Zora?" Mrs. Vanderpool inquired, for she seemed to
see in the girl's face and carriage some subtle change; something that
seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped the dreamer into the
realness of things; how suddenly the seeker saw; how to the wanderer,
the Way was opened.
Just how she sensed this Mrs. Vanderpool could not have explained, nor
could Zora. Was there a change, sudden, cataclysmic? No. There were to
come in future days all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless
cry: "It is all right--all right!" But more and more, above the doubt
and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that
flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became
possible, and through it all things else were possible. Thus from the
grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed
worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection rolled away the stone.
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