Her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had little intercourse these days, and rode away. 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. 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."