Hazel did not want to answer; but sitting very erect, with a precision that would have done any teacher credit, she replied: “Everybody goes to school in Boston, every single child. And the teachers don’t ask whether they are black or white, or rich or poor. There are Turks, and Arabians, and (switching to the map of Europe as safer ground) Hungarians, and Bulgarians, and Norwegians, and Swedians, (doubtfully) and Greeks, and Spaniards, and Romans, and Germans and Irish.” “You don’t say,” exclaimed Miss Laura, “all those heathen!” There was a moment’s silence. “When are you going home?” asked Miss Jane. “In May, I think, if anyone can be found to take me. I came down with Mrs. Graham, but she doesn’t return until July.” “A white lady?” “No, Miss Fairmount.” Hazel had heard the name in the course of their conversation, and felt pleased to be able to use it. But Miss Fairmount felt differently. “My name is Jane,” she said. “You should call me Miss Jane.” “Not Miss Fairmount?” “Certainly not. It is impertinent in a nigger.” The blood rushed to Hazel’s face. She felt as though someone had struck her. Rising from her chair she said in an unsteady voice, “I must go home now. Granny will be anxious. Please tell me what road to take?” Night had come on and the lamps were lighted. “You don’t suppose we’d let you go home alone, child,” Miss Jane said. “Marty ’ll take you. Marty, you get on your shawl and take Hazel to Aunt Ellen’s. It’s not far beyond your house. Laura, show Hazel the birds in the parlor. Maybe she’d like to look at them.” Miss Laura took up a lamp, and led the child into the parlor, where she had been sitting when Hazel entered the house. The walls were bare of pictures and the furniture was heavy and decayed. In one corner was a table on which was a glass case containing three stuffed birds, a mocker, a humming bird and a cardinal. Hazel admired appreciatively, but her eyes would wander across the room where stood a huge four-poster, covered with an elaborate spread. “They’re very pretty,” she said politely. “Granny tells me I must hear the mocking birds in the spring. We don’t have mocking birds in Massachusetts.” “The North and the South are very different,” Miss Laura said, looking perplexedly at the child. Hazel called them Miss Jane and Miss Laura when she said good-bye. She held out her hand a little shyly to Miss Jane, fearing that might be impertinent in the South. But Miss Jane took it, and stroked her coat, and told her to come again, and Miss Laura shook hands too, and sent a message to Aunt Ellen. Then, the good-bye over, in proper southern fashion the little colored girl went out the back door. Marty was not communicative, like her mistress, and scarcely spoke as they walked along the dark road. When they had gone a short distance past her cabin a boy appeared ahead of them. “Hazel,” he called. “Scip,” she answered, and ran to him. He caught her roughly. “Where you been?” he asked.