astonishment. Twice she tried to speak, but there were so many things to say that she could not choose.
“Tell Zora,” Miss Smith at last managed to say.
Zora was dreaming again. Somehow, the old dream-life, with its glorious fantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter than ever. There was no tangible reason why, and yet today she had shut herself in her den. Searching down in the depths of her trunk, she drew forth that filmy cloud of white‚ÅÝ‚Äîsilk-bordered and half finished to a gown. Why were her eyes wet today and her mind on the Silver Fleece? It was an anniversary, and perhaps she still remembered that moment, that supreme moment before the mob. She half slipped on, half wound about her, the white cloud of cloth, standing with parted lips, looking into the long mirror and gleaming in the fading day like midnight gowned in mists and stars. Abruptly there came a peremptory knocking at the door.
‚ÄúZora! Zora!‚Äù sounded Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell‚Äôs voice. Forgetting her informal attire, she opened the door, fearing some mishap. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell poured out the news. Zora received it in such motionless silence that Mary wondered at her want of feeling. At last, however, she said happily to Zora:
“Well, the battle’s over, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s just begun.”
“Just begun?” echoed Mary in amazement.
‚ÄúThink of the servile black folk, the half awakened restless whites, the fat land waiting for the harvest, the masses panting to know‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhy, the battle is scarcely even begun.‚Äù
“Yes, I guess that’s so,” Mary began to comprehend. “We’ll thank God it has begun, though.”