He grew eloquent as he spoke, picturing the scene he knew so well. In his narrow life the church and its emotional appeal had occupied an important place. He wanted to tell her that he had been among that group kneeling in repentance, that he was a sinner saved by grace; but there was an aloofness about her that kept him from going further. He could not guess that she had wholly forgotten him, and was sitting in a bare room where the dim lamp lighted a multitude of black faces; where the cries of "Amen" rang from the penitent seat, and where the black preacher, the only father she had ever known, called upon the Lord to give to His children mercy and forgiveness. Her visitor had never listened to such a revival as she! There was a long silence. Then Richard Brown strove again to make conversation. "The niggers, now, they're a worthless lot, don't you think?" Hertha started nervously. "I don't think so," she said. "Don't you? I suppose you've had 'em in your family for a long time--old mammies and uncles. They don't grow that kind round our way, only a lot of worthless coons that won't do a lick of work unless they're driven to it." "There's the funniest nigger minstrel show at the Hippodrome," he went on, "you ought to see it. Greatest thing out. There ain't anything much funnier, anyway, than to see a black buck dressed in a high hat and a pair of fancy shoes, opening his frog mouth and singing a coon song. Mighty funny songs they've got there, too. Wish you could hear one of them." He wanted to ask her to go to the show with him the next week, but she looked further removed from him than ever. Had he said anything to warrant it he would have thought that she was angry; but that could hardly be the case. She just wasn't his kind and he had better accept the fact and go home. But as he sat crossing and recrossing his knees, wishing inexpressibly for the relief of a smoke, her face in the lamplight was so lovely that he shut his teeth and resolved to hang on. Then a sneeze came to his relief, a big-throated sneeze, followed by a second and a third. "Oh," Hertha cried, rousing herself, "aren't you warm enough? Perhaps it's warmer in the kitchen." "Don't bother." "It isn't any bother. I often sit there." He followed her into the bright little kitchen, hoping that in a new environment he might be able to break through her reticence; but Hertha herself helped him. "I'm going to make you a cup of cocoa," she said. "You're cold and you need something to warm you up." Beyond allowing him to light the gas stove, she refused all assistance, and as he stood watching her go through her deft movements, measuring, stirring, and at last pouring a foaming liquid into their two cups--for to his delight she was to share the meal--he was more attracted and yet more puzzled than ever. "You cook mighty well," he said as she poured the hot cocoa.