The pale boy-face of
one, with soft brown eyes glared up sightless to the sun; the dead,
leathered bronze of the other was carved in piteous terror.
_Thirty-eight_
ATONEMENT
Three months had flown. It was Spring again, and Zora sat in the
transformed swamp--now a swamp in name only--beneath the great oak,
dreaming. And what she dreamed there in the golden day she dared not
formulate even to her own soul. She rose with a start, for there was
work to do. Aunt Rachel was ill, and Emma went daily to attend her;
today, as she came back, she brought news that Colonel Cresswell, who
had been unwell for several days, was worse. She must send Emma up to
help, and as she started toward the school she glanced toward the
Cresswell Oaks and saw the arm-chair of its master on the pillared
porch.
Colonel Cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. As far as he
could see, there was no human soul. His eyes were blood-shot, his cheeks
sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. A sort of terror shook
him until he heard the distant songs of black folk in the fields. He
sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes and the breath came easier. When
he opened them again a white figure was coming up the avenue of the
Oaks. He watched it greedily. It was Mary Cresswell, and she started
when she saw him.
"You are worse, father?" she asked.
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