a teacher has yet entered his dear, simple head. But, my point is simply
this: he's a man, and a human one, and if you keep on making much over
him, and talking to him and petting him, he'll have the right to
interpret your manner in his own way--the same that any young man
would."

"But--but, he's a--a--"

"A Negro. To be sure, he is; and a man in addition. Now, dear, don't
take this too much to heart; this is not a rebuke, but a clumsy warning.
I am simply trying to make clear to you _why_ you should be careful.
Treat poor Zora a little more lovingly, and Bles a little less warmly.
They are just human--but, oh! so human."

Mary Taylor rose up stiffly and mumbled a brief good-night. She went to
her room, and sat down in the dark. The mere mention of the thing was to
her so preposterous--no, loathsome, she kept repeating.

She slowly undressed in the dark, and heard the rumbling of the cotton
wagons as they swayed toward town. The cry of the Naked was sweeping the
world, and yonder in the night black men were answering the call. They
knew not what or why they answered, but obeyed the irresistible call,
with hearts light and song upon their lips--the Song of Service. They
lashed their mules and drank their whiskey, and all night the piled
fleece swept by Mary Taylor's window, flying--flying to that far cry.
Miss Taylor turned uneasily in her bed and jerked the bed-clothes about
her ears.

"Mrs. Vanderpool is right," she confided to the night, with something of
the awe with which one suddenly comprehends a hidden oracle; "there must