heard whisper.

"I should not like--to kill you."

He looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk. Slowly he
lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and compared the
cotton-check with it.

"Three thousand pounds," he announced in a careless tone. "Yes, that
will make about two bales of lint. It's extra cotton--say fifteen cents
a pound--one hundred fifty dollars--seventy-five dollars to you--h'm."
He took a note-book out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head,
and paused to relight his cigarette.

"Let's see--your rent and rations--"

"Elspeth pays no rent," she said slowly, but he did not seem to hear.

"Your rent and rations with the five years' back debt,"--he made a hasty
calculation--"will be one hundred dollars. That leaves you twenty-five
in our debt. Here's your receipt."

The blow had fallen. She did not wince nor cry out. She took the
receipt, calmly, and walked out into the darkness.

They had stolen the Silver Fleece.

What should she do? She never thought of appeal to courts, for Colonel
Cresswell was Justice of the Peace and his son was bailiff. Why had they
stolen from her? She knew. She was now penniless, and in a sense
helpless. She was now a peon bound to a master's bidding. If Elspeth
chose to sign a contract of work for her to-morrow, it would mean
slavery, jail, or hounded running away. What would Elspeth do? One never
knew. Zora walked on. An hour ago it seemed that this last blow must
have killed her. But now it was different. Into her first despair had
crept, in one fierce moment, grim determination. Somewhere in the world
sat a great dim Injustice which had veiled the light before her young
eyes, just as she raised them to the morning. With the veiling, death
had come into her heart.

And yet, they should not kill her; they should not enslave her. A
desperate resolve to find some way up toward the light, if not to it,
formed itself within her. She would not fall into the pit opening before
her. Somehow, somewhere lay The Way. She must never fall lower; never be
utterly despicable in the eyes of the man she had loved. There was no
dream of forgiveness, of purification, of re-kindled love; all these she
placed sadly and gently into the dead past. But in awful earnestness,
she turned toward the future; struggling blindly, groping in half formed
plans for a way.

She came thus into the room where sat Miss Smith, strangely pallid
beneath her dusky skin. But t