d on her soul. She wished
neither food nor words, only to be alone. Then gradually the pain of
injury stung her when the blood flowed fuller. As Miss Smith knelt
beside her one night to make her simple prayer Zora sat suddenly
upright, white-swathed, dishevelled, with fury in her midnight eyes.

"I want no prayers!" she cried, "I will not pray! He is no God of mine.
He isn't fair. He knows and won't tell. He takes advantage of us--He
works and fools us." All night Miss Smith heard mutterings of this
bitterness, and the next day the girl walked her room like a
tigress,--to and fro, to and fro, all the long day. Toward night a dumb
despair settled upon her. Miss Smith found her sitting by the window
gazing blankly toward the swamp. She came to Miss Smith, slowly, and put
her hands upon her shoulders with almost a caress.

"You must forgive me," she pleaded plaintively. "I reckon I've been
mighty bad with you, and you always so good to me; but--but, you see--it
hurts so."

"I know it hurts, dear; I know it does. But men and women must learn to
bear hurts in this world."

"Not hurts like this; they couldn't."

"Yes, even hurts like this. Bear and stand straight; be brave. After
all, Zora, no man is quite worth a woman's soul; no love is worth a
whole life."

Zora turned away with a gesture of impatience.

"You were born in ice," she retorted, adding a bit more tenderly, "in
clear strong ice; but I was born in fire. I live--I love; that's all."
And she sat down again, despairingly, and stared at the dull swamp. Miss
Smith stood for a moment and closed her eyes upon a vision.

"Ice!" she whispered. "My God!"

Then, at length, she said to Zora:

"Zora, there's only one way: do something; if you sit thus brooding
you'll go crazy."

"Do crazy folks forget?"

"Nonsense, Zora!" Miss Smith ridiculed the girl's fantastic vagaries;
her sound common sense rallied to her aid. "They are the people who
remember; sane folk forget. Work is the only cure for such pain."

"But there's nothing to do--nothing I want to do--nothing worth
doing--now."

"The Silver Fleece?"

The girl sat upright.

"The Silver Fleece," she murmured. Without further word, slowly she
arose and walked down the stairs, and out into the swamp. Miss Smith
watched her go; she knew that every step must be the keen prickle of
awakening flesh. Yet the girl walked steadily on.

* * * * *

It was the Christmas--not Chris