Under the care of the little hospital and the gentle nurse the children improved rapidly, and in two weeks were outdoors, playing with the little black children and even creeping into classrooms and listening. The grateful mothers came out twice a week at least; at first with suspicious aloofness, but gradually melting under Zora’s tact until they sat and talked with her and told their troubles and struggles. Zora realized how human they were, and how like their problems were to hers. They and their children grew to love this busy, thoughtful woman, and Zora’s fears were quieted.
The catastrophe came suddenly. The sheriff rode by, scowling and hunting for some poor black runaway, when he saw white children in the Negro school and white women, whom he knew were mill-hands, looking on. He was black with anger; turning he galloped back to town.
A few hours later the young physician arrived hastily in a cab to take the women and children to town. He said something in a low tone to Zora and drove away, frowning.
Zora came quickly to the school and asked for Alwyn. He was in the barn and she hurried there.
“Bles,” she said quietly, “it is reported that a Toomsville mob will burn the school tonight.”
Bles stood motionless.
“I’ve been fearing it. The sheriff has been stirring up the worst elements in the town lately and the mills pay off tonight.”
“Well,” she said quietly, “we must prepare.”
He looked at her, his face aglow with admiration.