t--one hears such contradictory
stories of them. But there must be some other white people--"

"Stuff! It's the Cresswells we want."

"Well," Mary was very dubious, "they are--the most important."

_Seven_

THE PLACE OF DREAMS

When she went South late in September, Mary Taylor had two definite but
allied objects: she was to get all possible business information
concerning the Cresswells, and she was to induce Miss Smith to prepare
for Mrs. Grey's benevolence by interesting the local whites in her work.
The programme attracted Miss Taylor. She felt in touch, even if dimly
and slightly, with great industrial movements, and she felt, too, like a
discerning pioneer in philanthropy. Both roles she liked. Besides, they
held, each, certain promises of social prestige; and society, Miss
Taylor argued, one must have even in Alabama.

Bles Alwyn met her at the train. He was growing to be a big fine bronze
giant, and Mary was glad to see him. She especially tried, in the first
few weeks of opening school, to glean as much information as possible
concerning the community, and particularly the Cresswells. She found the
Negro youth quicker, surer, and more intelligent in his answers than
those she questioned elsewhere, and she gained real enjoyment from her
long talks with him.

"Isn't Bles developing splendidly?" she said to Miss Smith one
afternoon. There was an unmistakable note of enthusiasm in her voice.
Miss Smith slowly closed her letter-file but did not look up.

"Yes," she said crisply. "He's eighteen now--quite a man."

"And most interesting to talk with."

"H'm--very"--drily. Mary was busy with her own thoughts, and she did not
notice the other woman's manner.

"Do you know," she pursued, "I'm a little afraid of one thing."

"So am I."

"Oh, you've noted it, too?--his friendship for that impossible girl,
Zora?"

Miss Smith gave her a searching look.

"What of it?" she demanded.

"She is so far beneath him."

"How so?"

"She is a bold, godless thing; I don't understand her."

"The two are not quite the same."

"Of course not; but she is unnaturally forward."

"Too bright," Miss Smith amplified.

"Yes; she knows quite too much. You surely remember that awful scarlet
dress? Well, all her clothes have arrived, or remained, at a simplicity
and vividness that is--well--immodest."

"Does she think them immodest?"

"What she thinks is a problem."

"_The_ problem, you mean?"

"Well, yes.