“Unselfishness is sacrifice—Jesus was supreme sacrifice.” (“Amen,” screamed a voice.) “In your dark lives,” he cried, “who is the King of Glory? Sacrifice. Lift up your heads, then, ye gates of prejudice and hate, and let the King of Glory come in. Forget yourselves and your petty wants, and behold your starving people. The wail of black millions sweeps the air—east and west they cry, Help! Help! Are you dumb? Are you blind? Do you dance and laugh, and hear and see not? The cry of death is in the air; they murder, burn, and maim us!” (“Oh—oh—” moaned the people swaying in their seats.) “When we cry they mock us; they ruin our women and debauch our children—what shall we do?
“Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away sin. Behold the Supreme Sacrifice that makes us clean. Give up your pleasures; give up your wants; give up all to the weak and wretched of our people. Go down to Pharaoh and smite him in God’s name. Go down to the South where we writhe. Strive—work—build—hew—lead—inspire! God calls. Will you hear? Come to Jesus. The harvest is waiting. Who will cry: ‘Here am I, send me!’ ”
Zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and answered the call: “Here am I—send me.”
And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars; around her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang some new song of peace.
“What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool inquired, for she seemed to see in the girl’s face and carriage some subtle change; something that seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped the dreamer into the realness of things; how suddenly the seeker saw; how to the wanderer, the Way was opened.
Just how she sensed this Mrs. Vanderpool could not have explained, nor could Zora. Was there a change, sudden, cataclysmic? No. There were to come in future days all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless cry: “It is all right—all right!” But more and more, above the doubt and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became possible, and through it all things else were possible. Thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection rolled away the stone.
“What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool repeated.
Zora looked up, almost happily—standing poised on her feet as if to tell of strength and purpose.
“I have found the Way,” she cried joyously.
Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long searching look.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting.”
“I’m sorry—but I’ve been—converted.” And she told her story.
“Pshaw, Zora!” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered impatiently. “He’s a fakir.”
“Maybe,” said Zora serenely and quietly; “but he brought the Word.”
“Zora, don’t talk cant; it isn’t worthy of your intelligence.”
“It was more than intelligent—it was true.”
“Zora—listen, child! You were wrought up tonight, nervous—wild. You were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul.”
But Zora merely smiled. “All you say may be true. But what does it matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: ‘Whereas I was blind now I see.’ ”
Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. “And what shall you do?” she asked.
“I’m going back South to work for my people.”
“When?” The old careworn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool’s features.
Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other woman’s neck.
“Not right off,” she said gently; “not until I learn more. I hate to leave you, but—it calls!”
Mrs. Vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily:
“You see, Zora, the more you know the more you can do.”
“Yes.”
“And if you are determined I will see that you are taught. You must know settlement-work and reform movements; not simply here but—” she hesitated—“in England—in France.”
“Will it take long?” Zora asked, smoothing the lady’s hair.
Mrs. Vanderpool considered. “No—five years is not long; it is all too short.”
“Five years: it is very long; but there is a great deal to learn. Must I study five years?”
Mrs. Vanderpool threw back her head.
“Zora, I am selfish I know, but five years truly is none too long. Then, too, Zora, we have work to do in that time.”
“What?”
“There is Alwyn’s career,” and Mrs. Vanderpool looked into Zora’s eyes.
The girl did not shrink, but she paused.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “we must help him.”
“And after he rises—”
“He will marry.”
“Whom?”
“The woman he loves,” returned Zora, quietly.
“Yes—that is best,” sighed Mrs. Vanderpool. “But how shall we help him?”
“Make him Treasurer of the United States without sacrificing his manhood or betraying his people.”
“I can do that,” said Mrs. Vanderpool slowly.
“It will cost something,” said Zora.
“I will do it,” was the lady’s firm assurance. Zora kissed her.
The next afternoon Mrs. Cresswell went down to a white social settlement of which Congressman Todd had spoken, where a meeting of the Civic Club was to be held. She had come painfully to realize that if she was to have a career she must make it for herself. The plain, unwelcome truth was that her husband had no great interests in life in which she could find permanent pleasure. Companionship and love there was and, she told herself, always would be; but in some respects their lives must flow in two streams. Last night, for the second time, she had irritated him; he had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must
