gentlemen, including sound Northern business men like Mr. Easterly,
shall hold this money in trust, and expend it for your school as they
think best."

"Mr. Cresswell would be their local representative?" asked Miss Smith
slowly with white face.

"Why yes--yes, of course."

There was a long, tense silence. Then the firm reply,

"Mrs. Grey, I thank you, but I cannot accept your offer."

Sarah Smith's voice was strong, the tremor had left her hands. She had
expected something like this, of course; yet when it came--somehow it
failed to stun. She would not turn over the direction of the school, or
the direction of the education of these people, to those who were most
opposed to their education. Therefore, there was no need to hesitate;
there was no need to think the thing over--she had thought it over--and
she looked into Mrs. Grey's eyes and with gathering tears in her own
said:

"Again, I thank you very much, Mrs. Grey."

Mrs. Grey was a picture of the most emphatic surprise, and Mr. Cresswell
moved to the window. Mrs. Grey looked helplessly at her companions.

"But--I don't understand, Miss Smith--why can't you accept my offer?"

"Because you ask me to put my school in control of those who do not wish
for the best interests of black folk, and in particular I object to Mr.
Cresswell," said Miss Smith, slowly but very distinctly, "because his
relation to the forces of evil in this community has been such that he
can direct no school of mine." Mrs. Vanderpool moved toward the door and
Mr. Cresswell bowing slightly followed. Dr. Boldish looked indignant and
Mr. Bocombe dove after his note-book. Mary Taylor, her head in a whirl,
came forward. She felt that in some way she was responsible for this
dreadful situation and she wanted desperately to save matters from final
disaster.

"Come," she said, "Mrs. Grey, we'll talk this matter over again later. I
am sure Miss Smith does not mean quite all she says--she is tired and
nervous. You join the others and don't wait for me and I will be along
directly."

Mrs. Grey was only too glad to escape and Mr. Bocombe got a chance to
talk. He drew out his note-book.

"Awfully interesting," he said, "awfully. Now--er--let's see--oh, yes.
Did you notice how unhealthy the children looked? Race is undoubtedly
dying out; fact. No hope. Weak. No spontaneity either--rather languid,
did you notice? Yes, and their heads--small and narrow--no brain
capacity. They can't concentrate;