time it was Miss Witherspoon. "May I come in just
for a moment?" that lady said.

Hertha smiled pleasantly but inwardly felt resentment.

"I want so much to let you know what I've been thinking about," Miss
Witherspoon announced as she entered the room. "I've just remembered a
nice old couple whom I haven't seen for more than a year who live only a
block from the Institute. I believe they would be delighted to take you
to board."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Palmer Field. I remember her well now. Her husband at one time was
a clerk in a bank, though I don't know what he may be doing at present.
The last time I saw him he looked too old to be a clerk. Probably they
would be very glad to take you in, and would charge you only a dollar
more than at Clay House. And there is something, you know, in what Miss
Merryvale says about your having some social life. They are quiet,
elderly people who sometimes take a student to board. I'll write and
tell them about you and see whether they will take you in."

"I would rather wait, Miss Witherspoon; we start North in a few days."

"It doesn't do any harm to write; then when we go to see them they will
know who you are."

"Are you telling every one about me?" The question came with a touch of
anger.

"Why, yes, what else should I do? You have to tell something of your
past, and how much better to have it known so that there will be no
questioning. I assure you every one will be most considerate. Your
story, with the legacy left you, has a touch of romance; and what a
pretty name, too, 'Hertha,' Is it German?"

"Perhaps."

"Please excuse me," the Boston woman said as she moved apologetically
toward the door, "I shouldn't have come in for I know you're tired of
all our talk, but I had a new idea and I wanted you to hear it."

She looked pleasant as she spoke and Hertha smiled back, but when the
door was shut the girl threw herself face downward upon the bed. It was
a new thought to her that people would know her story, and she resented
it. It was partly to escape the story that she was leaving here, and now
she was to be discussed and pointed at in Boston as the white girl who
grew up among Negroes. Instead of escaping from her past it was to
follow her into the land where she had expected to be free.

Another knock at the door. Hertha rose slowly, and without opening,
called, "Who is it?"

"Jes' me, _Miss_ Hertha."

She opened, to find the cook, Pomona, outside.

"Some one wantin