On the step of the cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood Zora. Measured by the squat cabin she seemed in height colossal; slim, straight as a pine, motionless, with one long outstretched arm pointing to where the path swept onward toward the town.
It was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and sharp-cut in the green mystery of the sunlight.
Before that motionless, fateful figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, dishevelled, clutching her breast; she bent and rose‚ÅÝ‚Äîhesitated‚ÅÝ‚Äîseemed to plead; then turning, clasped in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in Zora‚Äôs gown.
Next instant she was staggering along the path whither Zora pointed.
Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor.
Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown.
Mary Taylor looked up into Zora’s face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know; it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt.
All this lay in its darkness.
“Good morning, Miss Taylor.”
Mary, who was wont to teach this woman‚ÅÝ‚Äîso lately a child‚ÅÝ‚Äîsearched in vain for words to address her now.