"What is the matter, Zora?" Mrs. Vanderpool repeated.
Zora looked up, almost happily--standing poised on her feet as if to
tell of strength and purpose.
"I have found the Way," she cried joyously.
Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long searching look.
"Where have you been?" she asked. "I've been waiting."
"I'm sorry--but I've been--converted." And she told her story.
"Pshaw, Zora!" Mrs. Vanderpool uttered impatiently. "He's a fakir."
"Maybe," said Zora serenely and quietly; "but he brought the Word."
"Zora, don't talk cant; it isn't worthy of your intelligence."
"It was more than intelligent--it was true."
"Zora--listen, child! You were wrought up tonight, nervous--wild. You
were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied
two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul."
But Zora merely smiled. "All you say may be true. But what does it
matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: 'Whereas I was
blind now I see.'"
Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. "And what shall you do?"
she asked.
"I'm going back South to work for my people."
"When?" The old careworn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool's features.
Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other
woman's neck.
"Not right off," she said gently; "not until I learn more.
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