Abruptly there came a peremptory knocking at the door.
"Zora! Zora!" sounded Mrs. Cresswell's voice. Forgetting her informal
attire, she opened the door, fearing some mishap. Mrs. Cresswell poured
out the news. Zora received it in such motionless silence that Mary
wondered at her want of feeling. At last, however, she said happily to
Zora:
"Well, the battle's over, isn't it?"
"No, it's just begun."
"Just begun?" echoed Mary in amazement.
"Think of the servile black folk, the half awakened restless whites, the
fat land waiting for the harvest, the masses panting to know--why, the
battle is scarcely even begun."
"Yes, I guess that's so," Mary began to comprehend. "We'll thank God it
has begun, though."
"Thank God!" Zora reverently repeated.
"Come, let's go back to poor, dear Miss Smith," suggested Mary.
"I can't come just now--but pretty soon."
"Why? Oh, I see; you're trying on something--how pretty and becoming!
Well, hurry."
As they stood together, the white woman deemed the moment opportune; she
slipped her arm about the black woman's waist and began:
"Zora, I've had something on my mind for a long time, and I shouldn't
wonder if you had thought of the same thing."
"What is it?"
"Bles and Emma."
"What of them?"
"Their liking for each other."
Zora bent a moment and caught up the folds of the Fleece.
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