you speak so to Miss Taylor?" he asked, reproachfully. She
considered the matter a moment.

"You don't understand," she said. "You can't never understand. I can see
right through people. You can't. You never had a witch for a mammy--did
you?"

"No."

"Well, then, you see I have to take care of you and see things for you."

"Zora," he said thoughtfully, "you must learn to read."

"What for?"

"So that you can read books and know lots of things."

"Don't white folks make books?"

"Yes--most of the books."

"Pooh! I knows more than they do now--a heap more."

"In some ways you do; but they know things that give them power and
wealth and make them rule."

"No, no. They don't really rule; they just thinks they rule. They just
got things--heavy, dead things. We black folks is got the _spirit_.
We'se lighter and cunninger; we fly right through them; we go and come
again just as we wants to. Black folks is wonderful."

He did not understand what she meant; but he knew what he wanted and he
tried again.

"Even if white folks don't know everything they know different things
from us, and we ought to know what they know."

This appealed to her somewhat.

"I don't believe they know much," she concluded; "but I'll learn to read
and just see."

"It will be hard work," he warned. But he had come prepared for
acquiescence. He took a primer from his pocket and, lighting a match,
showed her the alphabet.

"Learn those," he said.

"What for?" she asked, looking at the letters disdainfully.

"Because that's the way," he said, as the light flared and went out.

"I don't believe it," she disputed, disappearing in the wood and
returning with a pine-knot. They lighted it and its smoky flame threw
wavering shadows about. She turned the leaves till she came to a picture
which she studied intently.

"Is this about this?" she asked, pointing alternately to reading and
picture.

"Yes. And if you learn--"

"Read it," she commanded. He read the page.

"Again," she said, making him point out each word. Then she read it
after him, accurately, with more perfect expression. He stared at her.
She took the book, and with a nod was gone.

It was Saturday and dark. She never asked Bles to her home--to that
mysterious black cabin in mid-swamp. He thought her ashamed of it, and
delicately refrained from going. So tonight she slipped away, stopped
and listened till she heard his footsteps on the pike, and then flew
homeward. P