sweeping the world, and yonder in the night black men were answering the call. They knew not what or why they answered, but obeyed the irresistible call, with hearts light and song upon their lips‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Song of Service. They lashed their mules and drank their whiskey, and all night the piled fleece swept by Mary Taylor‚Äôs window, flying‚ÅÝ‚Äîflying to that far cry. Miss Taylor turned uneasily in her bed and jerked the bedclothes about her ears.
‚Äú Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool is right,‚Äù she confided to the night, with something of the awe with which one suddenly comprehends a hidden oracle; ‚Äúthere must be a difference, always, always! That impudent Negro!‚Äù
All night she dreamed, and all day‚ÅÝ‚Äîespecially when trim and immaculate she sat in her chair and looked down upon fifty dark faces‚ÅÝ‚Äîand upon Zora.
Zora sat thinking. She saw neither Miss Taylor nor the long straight rows of desks and faces. She heard neither the drone of the spellers nor did she hear Miss Taylor say, “Zora!” She heard and saw none of this. She only heard the prattle of the birds in the wood, far down where the Silver Fleece would be planted.
For the time of cotton-planting was coming; the gray and drizzle of December was past and the hesitation, of January. Already