"Why, yes—yes, of course; only this little baby didn't have any other father."
"Yes, I know one like that," she said,—and then she added softly: "Poor little Christ-baby."
Bles hesitated, and before he found words Zora was saying:
"How white she is; she's as white as the lily, Bles; but—I'm sorry she's white—Bles, what's purity—just whiteness?"
Bles glanced at her awkwardly but she was still staring wide-eyed at the picture, and her voice was earnest. She was now so old and again so much a child, an eager questioning child, that there seemed about her innocence something holy.
"It means," he stammered, groping for meanings—"it means being good—just as good as a woman knows how."
She wheeled quickly toward him and asked him eagerly:
"Not better—not better than she knows, but just as good, in—lying and stealing and—and everything?"
Bles smiled.
"No—not better than she knows, but just as good."