Miss Taylor stared helplessly at the solemn eyes that seemed to 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?"