cabin, new-boarded
and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. A white man was tossing into
the flames different household articles--a feather bed, a bedstead, two
rickety chairs. A young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood
with clenched fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him.
The white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman
cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But Zora's hand
was on his shoulder.

"What's the matter, Rob?" she asked.

"They're selling us out," he muttered savagely. "Millie's been sick
since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and
the other little ones--I didn't make much. They've took my mule, now
they're burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But
by--"

"There, Rob, let Millie come with me--we'll see Miss Smith. We must get
land to rent and arrange somehow."

The mother sobbed, "The cradle--was baby's!"

With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and the red
flame spurted aloft.

The crimson fire flashed in Zora's eyes as she passed the overseer.

"Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?" he growled
insolently.

Zora's eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered.

"Nothing," she answered softly. "But I hope your soul will burn in hell
forever and forever."

They proceeded down the plantation road, but Zora could not speak. She
pushed them slowly on, and turned aside to let the anger, the impotent,
futile anger, rage itself out. Alone in the great broad spaces, she knew
she could fight it down, and come back again, cool and in calm and
deadly earnest, to lead these children to the light.

The sorrow in her heart was new and strange; not sorrow for herself, for
of that she had tasted the uttermost; but the vast vicarious suffering
for the evil of the world. The tumult and war within her fled, and a
sense of helplessness sent the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She
longed for rest; but the last plantation was yet to be passed. Far off
she heard the yodle of the gangs of peons. She hesitated, looking for
some way of escape: if she passed them she would see something--she
always saw something--that would send the red blood whirling madly.

"Here, you!--loafing again, damn you!" She saw the black whip writhe and
curl across the shoulders of the plough-boy. The boy crouched and
snarled, and again the whip hissed and cracked.

Zora stood rigid and gray.