She rushed in to Miss Smith and
found her sitting there--straight, upright, composed in all save that
the tears were streaming down her face and she was making no effort to
stop them.
"Why--Miss Smith!" she faltered.
Miss Smith pointed to a paper. Mrs. Cresswell picked it up curiously. It
was an official notification to the trustees of the Smith School of a
legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together with the Cresswell house
and plantation. Mrs. Gresswell sat down in open-mouthed astonishment.
Twice she tried to speak, but there were so many things to say that she
could not choose.
"Tell Zora," Miss Smith at last managed to say.
Zora was dreaming again. Somehow, the old dream-life, with its glorious
phantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter than ever. There
was no tangible reason why, and yet today she had shut herself in her
den. Searching down in the depths of her trunk, she drew forth that
filmy cloud of white--silk-bordered and half finished to a gown. Why
were her eyes wet today and her mind on the Silver Fleece? It was an
anniversary, and perhaps she still remembered that moment, that supreme
moment before the mob. She half slipped on, half wound about her, the
white cloud of cloth, standing with parted lips, looking into the long
mirror and gleaming in the fading day like midnight gowned in mists and
stars.
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