left home.

The young man laughed back heartily, even noisily. He was delighted at
his success.

"Won't you tell me your name?" he said pleadingly. "Mine's Brown,
Richard Shelby Brown's the whole of it, but Dick is what everybody uses
at home. I come from Georgia and that's the best state in the union
except yours. I'm working as salesman with a wholesale firm over on
Broadway not far from here--I'll show you the place if you'll walk over
there. I'm twenty-five years old and I don't drink, brought up
prohibition and won't touch the stuff. Now, please, it's your turn.
Won't you tell me your name?"

Hertha still stood hesitating, pushing one foot over the other, clasping
her hands together in her muff and striving to decide in her mind what
to do. She looked so shyly pretty that the young man watching her, his
heart in his mouth, felt that the sentence would be beyond his deserts
if she sent him away. Yet he would have gone without question, so much a
lady did she seem, so far above the social circle attainable by Richard
Shelby Brown. She in her turn was thinking it would be easy to go and
escape all questionings; and yet easier to let him have his way, at
least to recognize him, not continually to pass him if they met; and
easiest of all just to stand there, looking down at her muff or up at
the church and the white clouds piled back of it; and then, at length to
say, still not looking at him, "My name is Hertha Ogilvie."

"That's a lovely name, and Georgia, too. You came from that state,
didn't you, Miss Hertha?"

"No, my family came from Florida."

"That's queer, for it's a Georgia name."

"Didn't any one ever leave Georgia for Florida?"

She was looking up at him now, her brown eyes shining, a little smile on
her lips.

"I can't conceive it," he said in a loud, jovial voice to hide his own
embarrassment. She was far above him, he felt sure, in birth and
breeding. "It's a fine name, I know that. I wish we could find we were
kin."

"Everybody is kin in the South," she said decidedly, anxious to leave
the subject of family. And then, pointing to the gate, asked, "What has
that boy trailing after him?"

A little boy of about eight, in shabby coat and broken shoes, had come
into the park and, behind him, drawn by a rope, was a sled. Stopping a
moment to survey the ground, the boy lifted the sled, ran a few steps,
flung himself upon it, and coasted along the path, slowing down close to
where they stood.

D