“Did you make that pin?” she asked.
“No, but it is mine.”
“Why is it yours?”
“Because it was given to me.”
‚ÄúBut you don‚Äôt need it; you‚Äôve got four other prettier ones‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI counted.‚Äù
“That makes no difference.”
‚ÄúYes it does‚ÅÝ‚Äîfolks ain‚Äôt got no right to things they don‚Äôt need.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat makes no difference, Zora, and you know it. The pin is mine. You stole it. If you had wanted a pin and asked me I might have given you‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
The girl blazed.
“I don’t want your old gifts,” she almost hissed. “You don’t own what you don’t need and can’t use. God owns it and I’m going to send it back to Him.”
With a swift motion she whipped the pin from her pocket and raised her arm to hurl it into the swamp. Bles caught her hand. He caught it lightly and smiled sorrowfully into her eyes. She wavered a moment, then the answering light sprang to her face. Dropping the brooch into his hand, she wheeled and fled toward the cabin.
Bles handed it silently to Miss Taylor. Mary Taylor was beside herself with impatient anger‚ÅÝ‚Äîand anger intensified by a conviction of utter helplessness to cope with any strained or unusual situations between herself and these two.