"There is a girl, Zora, who has just entered, who—I must speak candidly—who ought not to be here; I thought it but right to let you know."
"Thank you, so much. I'll tell Miss Smith." Mary Taylor suddenly felt herself a judge of character. "I suspected that she was—not what she ought to be. Believe me, we appreciate your interest."
A few more words, and Mr. Cresswell, after bending courteously over her hand with a deference no New Englander had ever shown, was riding away on his white mare.
For a while Mary Taylor sat very quietly. It was like a breath of air from the real world, this hour's chat with a well-bred gentleman. She wondered how she had done her part—had she been too eager and school-girlish? Had she met this stately ceremony with enough breeding to show that she too was somebody? She pounced upon Miss Smith the minute that lady entered the office.
"Miss Smith, who do you think has been here?" she burst out enthusiastically.
"I saw him on the lawn." There was a suspicious lack of warmth in this brief affirmation.
"He was so gracious and kindly, and he knows my brother. And oh, Miss Smith! we've got to send that Zora right away."
"Indeed"—the observation was not even interrogatory. The preceptress of the struggling school for Negro children merely evinced patience for the younger woman's fervency.
"Yes; he says she's utterly depraved."
"Said that, did he?" Miss Smith watched her with tranquil regard. Miss Taylor paused.