depths to this matter that she did not
understand and her irritation increased.

"You know that we could not give the prize to a--Negro."

"Why not?"

"That is quite immaterial. Social equality cannot be forced. At the same
time I recognize the injustice, and I have come to say that if you will
withdraw your exhibit you will be given a scholarship in a Boston
school."

"I do not wish it."

"Well, what do you want?"

"I was not aware that I had asked for anything."

Mrs. Cresswell felt herself getting angry.

"Why did you send your exhibit when you knew it was not wanted?"

"Because you asked me to."

"We did not ask for colored people."

"You asked all Southern-born persons. I am a person and I am Southern
born. Moreover, you sent me a personal letter."

Mrs. Cresswell was sure that this was a lie and was thoroughly incensed.

"You cannot have the prize," she almost snapped. "If you will withdraw I
will pay you any reasonable sum."

"Thank you. I do not want money; I want justice."

Mrs. Cresswell arose and her face was white.

"That is the trouble with you Negroes: you wish to get above your places
and force yourselves where you are not wanted. It does no good, it only
makes trouble and enemies." Mrs. Cresswell stopped, for the colored
woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid entered
and stood ready. Mrs. Cresswell walked slowly to the door and stepped
out. Then she turned.

"What does Miss Wynn do for a living?"

The girl tittered.

"She used to teach school but she don't do nothing now. She's just
married; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the Treasury."

Mrs. Cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. There was
but one resource--she must keep the matter out of the newspapers, and
see Stillings, whom she now remembered well.

"I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in the art
exhibition?"

Mrs. Cresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter, and the
maid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers and be blazoned
to-morrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on its
cushions.

"Where to, Madame?" asked the chauffeur.

"I don't care," returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.

She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans seemed
about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.

Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, as