Her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had little intercourse these days, and rode away. She rushed in to Miss Smith and found her sitting there‚ÅÝ‚Äîstraight, upright, composed in all save that the tears were streaming down her face and she was making no effort to stop them.
‚ÄúWhy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Smith!‚Äù she faltered.
Miss Smith pointed to a paper. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell picked it up curiously. It was an official notification to the trustees of the Smith School of a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together with the Cresswell house and plantation. Mrs. ¬ÝGresswell sat down in open-mouthed 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: