“No,” Miss Smith ventured.
And then the girl crouched at her feet and told the dream and the story. Many factors were involved that were quite foreign to the older woman’s nature and training. The recital brought to her New England mind many questions of policy and propriety. And yet, as she looked down upon the dark face, hot with enthusiasm, it all seemed somehow more than right. Slowly and lightly Miss Smith slipped her arm about Zora, and nodded and smiled a perfect understanding. They looked out together into the darkening twilight.
‚ÄúIt is so late and wet and you‚Äôre tired tonight‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt you think you‚Äôd better sleep in your little room?‚Äù
Zora sat still. She thought of the noisy flaming cabin and the dark swamp; but a contrasting thought of the white bed made her timid, and slowly she shook her head. Nevertheless Miss Smith led her to the room.
“Here are things for you to wear,” she pointed out, opening the bureau, “and here is the bathroom.” She left the girl standing in the middle of the floor.
In time Zora came to stay often at Miss Smith’s cottage, and to learn new and unknown ways of living and dressing. She still refused to board, for that would cost more than she could pay yet, and she would accept no charity. Gradually an undemonstrative friendship sprang up between the pale old gray-haired teacher and the dark young black-haired girl. Delicately, too, but gradually, the companionship of Bles and Zora was guided and regulated. Of mornings Zora would hurry through her lessons and get excused to fly to the swamp, to work and dream alone. At noon Bles would run down, and they would linger until he must hurry back to dinner. After school he would go again, working while she was busy in Miss Smith’s office, and returning later, would linger awhile to tell Zora of his day while she busied herself with her little tasks.