ideal, that flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became possible, and through it all things else were possible. Thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection rolled away the stone.
‚ÄúWhat is the matter, Zora?‚Äù Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool repeated.
Zora looked up, almost happily‚ÅÝ‚Äîstanding poised on her feet as if to tell of strength and purpose.
“I have found the Way,” she cried joyously.
Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool gave her a long searching look.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôve been‚ÅÝ‚Äîconverted.‚Äù And she told her story.
‚ÄúPshaw, Zora!‚Äù Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool uttered impatiently. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs a fakir.‚Äù
“Maybe,” said Zora serenely and quietly; “but he brought the Word.”
“Zora, don’t talk cant; it isn’t worthy of your intelligence.”
‚ÄúIt was more than intelligent‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was true.‚Äù
‚ÄúZora‚ÅÝ‚Äîlisten, child! You were wrought up tonight, nervous‚ÅÝ‚Äîwild. You were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul.‚Äù
But Zora merely smiled. “All you say may be true. But what does it matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: ‘Whereas I was blind now I see.’ ”