black waters spread into a great silent lake of slimy ooze. The dead trunk of a fallen tree lay straight in front, torn and twisted, its top hidden yonder and mingled with impenetrable undergrowth.
“Where now, Zora?” he cried.
In a moment she had slipped her hand away and was scrambling upon the tree trunk. The waters yawned murkily below.
“Careful! careful!” he warned, struggling after her until she disappeared amid the leaves. He followed eagerly, but cautiously; and all at once found himself confronting a paradise.
Before them lay a long island, opening to the south, on the black lake, but sheltered north and east by the dense undergrowth of the black swamp and the rampart of dead and living trees.
The soil was virgin and black, thickly covered over with a tangle of bushes, vines, and smaller growth all brilliant with early leaves and wild flowers.
“A pretty tough proposition for clearing and ploughing,” said Bles, with practised eye. But Zora eagerly surveyed the prospect.
“It’s where the Dreams lives,” she whispered.
Meantime Miss Taylor had missed her brooch and searched for it in vain. In the midst of this pursuit the truth occurred to her‚ÅÝ‚ÄîZora had stolen it. Negroes would steal, everybody said. Well, she must and would have the pin,