“Killing any of it; it’s all so pretty.”
“But it must be, so that what’s left will be prettier, or at least more useful.”
“But it shouldn’t be so; everything ought to have a chance to be beautiful and useful.”
“Perhaps it ought to be so,” admitted Bles, “but it isn’t.”
‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it so‚ÅÝ‚Äîanywhere?‚Äù
“I reckon not. Death and pain pay for all good things.”
She hoed away silently, hesitating over the choice of the plants, pondering this world-old truth, saddened by its ruthless cruelty.
“Death and pain,” she murmured; “what a price!”
Bles leaned on his hoe and considered. It had not occurred to him till now that Zora was speaking better and better English: the idioms and errors were dropping away; they had not utterly departed, however, but came crowding back in moments of excitement. At other times she clothed Miss Smith’s clear-cut, correct speech in softer Southern accents. She was drifting away from him in some intangible way to an upper world of dress and language and deportment, and the new thought was pain to him.
So it was that the Fleece rose and spread and grew to its wonderful flowering; and so these two children grew with it into theirs. Zora never forgot how they found the first white flower in that green and billowing sea, nor her low cry of pleasure and his gay shout of joy. Slowly, wonderfully the flowers spread‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhite, blue, and purple bells, hiding timidly, blazing luxuriantly amid the velvet leaves; until one day‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was after a southern rain and the sunlight was twinkling