lderness, beside its crawling slime.

She paused in sudden certainty that there lay the answer to her doubts
and mistrust. She felt impelled to go forward and ask--what? She did not
know, but something to still this war in her bosom. She had seldom seen
Elspeth; she had never been in her cabin. She had felt an inconquerable
aversion for the evil hag; she felt it now, and shivered in the warm
breeze.

As she came in full view of the door, she paused. On the step of the
cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood Zora. Measured by the squat
cabin she seemed in height colossal; slim, straight as a pine,
motionless, with one long outstretched arm pointing to where the path
swept onward toward the town.

It was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and sharp-cut
in the green mystery of the sunlight. Before that motionless, fateful
figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, dishevelled, clutching her
breast; she bent and rose--hesitated--seemed to plead; then turning,
clasped in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in Zora's
gown. Next instant she was staggering along the path whither Zora
pointed.

Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the
wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor.

Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the
little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary Taylor looked
up into Zora's face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know;
it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the
pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like,
regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully
veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. All
this lay in its darkness.

"Good-morning, Miss Taylor."

Mary, who was wont to teach this woman--so lately a child--searched in
vain for words to address her now. She stood bare-haired and hesitating
in the pale green light of the darkened morning. It seemed fit that a
deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of
the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. But
it brought Mary Taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden
impulse she spoke.

"Is--is anything the matter?" she asked nervously.

"Elspeth is sick," replied Zora.

"Is she very sick?"

"Yes--she has been called," solemnly returned the dark young woman.

Ma