A white man was tossing into
the flames different household articles--a feather bed, a bedstead, two
rickety chairs. A young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood
with clenched fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him.
The white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman
cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But Zora's hand
was on his shoulder.
"What's the matter, Rob?" she asked.
"They're selling us out," he muttered savagely. "Millie's been sick
since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and
the other little ones--I didn't make much. They've took my mule, now
they're burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But
by--"
"There, Rob, let Millie come with me--we'll see Miss Smith. We must get
land to rent and arrange somehow."
The mother sobbed, "The cradle--was baby's!"
With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and the red
flame spurted aloft.
The crimson fire flashed in Zora's eyes as she passed the overseer.
"Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?" he growled
insolently.
Zora's eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered.
"Nothing," she answered softly. "But I hope your soul will burn in hell
forever and forever."
They proceeded down the plantation road, but Zora could not speak.
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