o look so
deeply into her.

"Perhaps--I do, Zora; I'm sure I don't mean to, and--I hope God will
forgive me."

Zora softened.

"Oh, I reckon He will if He's a good God, because He'd know that lies
like that are heaps better than blabbing the truth right out. Only," she
added severely, "you mustn't keep saying it's wicked to lie 'cause it
ain't. Sometimes I lies," she reflected pensively, "and sometimes I
don't--it depends."

Miss Taylor forgot her collar, and fingered the pin on the desk. She
felt at once a desperate desire to know this girl better and to
establish her own authority. Yet how should she do it? She kept toying
with the pin, and Zora watched her. Then Miss Taylor said, absently:

"Zora, what do you propose to do when you grow up?"

Zora considered.

"Think and walk--and rest," she concluded.

"I mean, what work?"

"Work? Oh, I sha'n't work. I don't like work--do you?"

Miss Taylor winced, wondering if the girl were lying again. She said
quickly:

"Why, yes--that is, I like some kinds of work."

"What kinds?"

But Miss Taylor refused to have the matter made personal, as Zora had a
disconcerting way of pointing all their discussions.

"Everybody likes some kinds of work," she insisted.

"If you likes it, it ain't work," declared Zora; but Mary Taylor
proceeded around her circumscribed circle:

"You might make a good cook, or a maid."

"I hate cooking. What's a maid?"

"Why, a woman who helps others."

"Helps folks that they love? I'd like that."

"It is not a question of affection," said Miss Taylor, firmly: "one is
paid for it."

"I wouldn't work for pay."

"But you'll have to, child; you'll have to earn a living."

"Do you work for pay?"

"I work to earn a living."

"Same thing, I reckon, and it ain't true. Living just comes free,
like--like sunshine."

"Stuff! Zora, your people must learn to work and work steadily and work
hard--" She stopped, for she was sure Zora was not listening; the far
away look was in her eyes and they were shining. She was beautiful as
she stood there--strangely, almost uncannily, but startlingly beautiful
with her rich dark skin, softly moulded features, and wonderful eyes.

"My people?--my people?" she murmured, half to herself. "Do you know my
people? They don't never work; they plays. They is all little, funny
dark people. They flies and creeps and crawls, slippery-like; and they
cries and calls. Ah, my people! my poor little people! they