By day, Mildred, when she was canvassing, hourly expected to meet again the man whose recognition had frightened her. But the days went by without further encounter, and when she failed to meet him, she began to relax. She was worried constantly, but she was relieved after two weeks. The fright had passed, and she was cheerful again, much to the relief of her two friends. It had pained her to see that both were obviously worried on her account. And she respected them, because they were considerate enough not to ask her questions that would have annoyed her.
"You sang that beautifully, Miss Latham," said Wilson, one afternoon, when she left the piano, after singing a song that had been introduced lately into church services; and which, while sentimental, nevertheless possessed more thrill than the average.
"Do you think I can satisfy the congregation now?" she asked sweetly. She had been practicing it for several afternoons.
"I should say you could," he cried, enthusiastically. "You could satisfy any congregation, much less our little crowd." He looked sorrowful, as he said this. She understood. The great majority did not attend his services. They went to the big Baptist church two blocks away. Many of them even smiled, when they passed his little church and observed the few people sitting therein. Mildred sympathised with him, because she realized that he was a courageous young man, willing to go to any extent, so far as effort was concerned, in order to help those about him. They needed it too, these black people.
"Oh," she cried, so kind that he choked, "you will have a larger church some day. I am confident you will—I know you will." And she meant all she said. "In time the people will come to appreciate your efforts. As it is now, they don't think deep enough to do so. They want sermons, as yet, that make them feel by merely listening; whereas, it is necessary to study what you say.... That makes it difficult now. When the people become more intelligent, more practical, and more thoughtful, they will appreciate religion in a practical sense." He was overwhelmed with gratitude, as he heard these words. For a moment he couldn't speak. He felt the tears come.
"You are so kind, Miss Latham. You seem to understand, and see below the surface. And what you have said is timely. I am one, you may be sure, who appreciates it." He stopped here.
A choking, which he didn't wish her to notice, made it necessary. She was aware of the gratitude, the sincere gratitude in his tone, and her sympathy went out to him more than ever. As she saw him sitting there, with head bowed and face hid, he seemed his mother's boy. She felt strangely that other part. Impulsively, she advanced to where he sat by the window, with the sunlight streaming in upon him. In the bright, soft light, his curly hair shone, and seemed more beautiful than she had noticed it before. She laid her hand upon it. An hour ago, she would not, could not have dreamed she would do this. And then she spoke in words, the kindest, he felt, he had ever heard.
"There, now. It will be all right. Just give yourself time. Oh, it's a great struggle, this human problem. All these black ones of ours. But you are pursuing the right course, and some day they will see it. Then will come your success. It's going to come. It will come. It must come. These people can't keep on going along as they are; this crime—murder. It's terrible. Someone will help to stem the tide of it, someone will lead them. They need leaders. They are not bad people, with all we see and now know of them. They simply need some one to lead them into the light. I feel you will be that person. Yes. I am sure you are the person." She paused a moment, and it was only then, she became aware that her hand still rested upon his head. She removed it now, and silently left the room.
"I love her! I love her!" cried Wilson Jacobs. "Oh, God lead me, for I know not whither I go!"