first saw
her and as she saw her again this afternoon. But would she make a
satisfactory maid? Was it not a rather dangerous experiment? Why had she
asked for her? She certainly had not intended to when she entered the
house.

In the silence Miss Smith continued: "Here is a child in whom the
fountains of the great deep are suddenly broken up. With peace and care
she would find herself, for she is strong. But here there is no peace.
Slavery of soul and body awaits her and I am powerless to protect her.
She must go away. That going away may make or ruin her. She knows
nothing of working for wages and she has not the servant's humility; but
she has loyalty and pluck. For one she loves there is nothing she would
not do; but she cannot be driven. Or rather, if she is driven, it may
rouse in her the devil incarnate. She needs not exactly affection--she
would almost resent that--but intelligent interest and care. In return
for this she will gradually learn to serve and serve loyally. Frankly,
Mrs. Vanderpool, I would not have chosen you for this task of human
education. Indeed, you would have been my last thought--you seem to
me--I speak plainly--a worldly woman. Yet, perhaps--who can tell?--God
has especially set you to this task. At any rate, I have little choice.
I am at my wits' end. Elspeth, the mother of this child, is not long
dead; and here is the girl, beautiful, unprotected; and here am I,
almost helpless. She is in debt to the Cresswells, and they are pressing
the claim to her service. Take her if you can get her--it is, I fear,
her only chance. Mind you--if you can persuade her; and that may be
impossible."

"Where is she now?"

Miss Smith glanced out at the darkening landscape, and then at her
watch.

"I do not know; she's very late. She's given to wandering, but usually
she is here before this time."

"I saw her in town this afternoon," said Mrs. Vanderpool.

"Zora? In town?" Miss Smith rose. "I'll send her to you tomorrow," she
said quietly. Mrs. Vanderpool had hardly reached the Oaks before Miss
Smith was driving toward town.

A small cabin on the town's ragged fringe was crowded to suffocation.
Within arose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous laughter; the
scraping of a fiddle and whine of an accordion. Liquor began to appear
and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden as the dances whirled. At the
edge of the orgy stood Zora, wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain
that gripped her heart and ham