Hertha did as she was bidden, and, the guest-room in perfect order, went out upon the shady corner of the upper porch. A wind was blowing from the river, tossing the gray moss of the live-oaks, and brushing against her fingers the thin lace she was trying to sew upon a dress. It called her to play, pushed the little curls in her eyes, and spilled the spool of thread upon the floor. She laughed to herself as she picked it up, and then sat, her work in her lap, looking wistfully out into the swaying moss and the green leaves. So the gods and goddesses played at ball. Which god was he? Apollo, of course, the god of the sunlight, the gold gleaming in his ruddy hair. What good times they must have had in those old days when no one seemed to be busy, when you might run through the meadows singing as you went, when no one minded if you danced in the moonlight and played in the morning. Why should you not do such simple, happy things! She took up her needle again, and of a sudden thought of Tom going away alone. The remembrance of the boy's face held her to her task. Along the lane came an automobile, its horn tooting as it bumped over the uneven road. Hertha started, and putting down her work watched to see the car stop in front of the Merryvale door. It was most unusual to have guests arrive in this fashion and at this hour. The men were not about; Pomona, the cook, was unequal to receiving such a visitor, so though it was not her specified task, Hertha, mindful for the good ordering of the house, went to the door. Descending from the automobile was an alert-looking lady, neither young nor old, in a plain, good-fitting, tailor-made suit and small hat, with the business-like air of one who has done much traveling and is accustomed to finding herself in new surroundings. "I am Miss Witherspoon," she said at once. "I had expected to arrive later in the afternoon by boat, but it seemed wiser at the last to come part of the way by train. I hope I am not inconveniencing you by my early arrival." "It is no inconvenience," Hertha replied, "but I am sorry that Miss Merryvale is lying down." "Don't think of disturbing her," the newcomer said. And then, smiling at Hertha, asked, "Is this another Miss Merryvale?" "No," Hertha answered, "I am Miss Merryvale's maid." She was quite accustomed to being taken for a white girl, and felt no embarrassment; but the same could not be said of Miss Witherspoon. That well-bred lady almost stared; and then, turning, dismissed her car and followed Hertha, who had laden herself with bags, to the bedroom. "I hope everything is as you like it," the girl said to the "paying guest" who looked with approval at the cool room, high-ceilinged, with white walls, white iron bed and simple furnishings. "Thank you," said Miss Witherspoon, "I am sure I like it very much; and really, I believe there is nothing I should like better than to lie down myself."