Under the care of the little hospital and the gentle nurse the
children improved rapidly, and in two weeks were outdoors, playing with
the little black children and even creeping into classrooms and
listening. The grateful mothers came out twice a week at least; at first
with suspicious aloofness, but gradually melting under Zora's tact until
they sat and talked with her and told their troubles and struggles. Zora
realized how human they were, and how like their problems were to hers.
They and their children grew to love this busy, thoughtful woman, and
Zora's fears were quieted.
The catastrophe came suddenly. The sheriff rode by, scowling and hunting
for some poor black runaway, when he saw white children in the Negro
school and white women, whom he knew were mill-hands, looking on. He was
black with anger; turning he galloped back to town. A few hours later
the young physician arrived hastily in a cab to take the women and
children to town. He said something in a low tone to Zora and drove
away, frowning.
Zora came quickly to the school and asked for Alwyn. He was in the barn
and she hurried there.
"Bles," she said quietly, "it is reported that a Toomsville mob will
burn the school tonight."
Bles stood motionless.
"I've been fearing it. The sheriff has been stirring up the worst
elements in the town lately and the mills pay off tonight.
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