Remembering some former snubs, his
“I doesn’t see,” he returned reflectively, wiping his brows, “as how I can rightly spare you any time; the brethren is a-gettin’ mighty onpatient to hear me.” He pulled down his cuffs, regarding her doubtfully.
‚ÄúI might speak after you‚Äôre through,‚Äù she suggested. But he objected that there was the regular collection and two or three other collections, a baptism, a meeting of the trustees; there was no time, in short; but‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe eyed her again.
‚ÄúDoes you want‚ÅÝ‚Äîa collection?‚Äù he questioned suspiciously, for he could imagine few other reasons for talking. Then, too, he did not want to be too inflexible, for all of his people knew Zora and liked her.
‚ÄúOh, no, I want no collection at all. I only want a little voluntary work on their part.‚Äù He looked relieved, frowned through the door at the audience, and looked at his bright gold watch. The whole crowd was not there yet‚ÅÝ‚Äîperhaps‚ÅÝ‚Äî
‚ÄúYou kin say just a word before the sermont,‚Äù he finally yielded; ‚Äúbut not long‚ÅÝ‚Äînot long. They‚Äôse just a-dying to hear me.‚Äù
So Zora spoke simply but clearly: of neglect and suffering, of the sins of others that bowed young shoulders, of the great hope of the children’s future. Then she told something of what she had seen and read of the world’s newer ways of helping men and women. She talked of cooperation and refuges and other efforts; she praised their way of adopting children into their own homes; and then finally she told them of the land she was buying for new tenants and the helping hands she needed. The preacher fidgeted and coughed but dared not actually interrupt, for the people were listening breathless to a kind of straightforward talk