Ellen was slow in giving her answer. "It wouldn't be possible," she said at last. "I want you more than I can ever say, but it wouldn't be possible. I'm not young or good-looking, and Augusta is blacker and homelier than I. But you, if you came with us, it would be like putting a jewel in a room with thieves." In the silence that followed Hertha felt that her sister had again pushed her out of her home. And this time there was no sense of excitement, no wonderment at what the future would bring. She had entered the white world and knew it now. Before her was a second exile, a second effort to make her way among strangers; she believed a second failure. As she looked into the night with dimmed eyes she knew that Augusta Fairfax, in her rough cabin among hostile people, was not so lonely as she. "What are you going to do, Tom?" Ellen asked. "I haven't made up my mind yet," he answered. "Maybe I'll stay here for a while, get work somewhere about, an' maybe I'll go back North. There's a heap o' things to do in New York. General utility man, now, that's a good job sometimes. I had a friend last winter as worked in a house that was run by a lot of girls. He had the time of his life! The girls was all of them at work, in charities and hospitals and I don't know what-all societies. At night he'd wait on table for dinner, after he'd cooked it, and learned more'n he'd ever learn if he stayed in school all his days. He could talk like a book, that man could. And the girls, they got to relying on him for all sorts o' little things a man can do about a house. It's a nice way for girls to live, a lot of 'em together. I reckon a job like that might be fun." Though he did not look at Hertha she understood his thought for her and felt comforted. "There ain't no use in hurrying," was Tom's final comment. "If one thing turns out not to be wisest you can try another. As for me, if I ain't needed for anything else, a colored boy can always get an elevator job." He rose to his feet giving a prodigious yawn. "Time for me to go to bed." Hertha rose too and stood beside him. "You can have your old room now," she said softly. "That ain't my room no more, Sister," he answered. "I give that room to you. I'm doin' fine at Aunt Lucindy's. Don't you fret." And with a good-night he left them. Hertha watched him until he was out of sight. "He's the dearest boy in the world," she whispered to herself. "The dearest." Then, with a heavy heart, she turned to go in. "Don't go to bed yet," Ellen called. "You can't be sleepy. Come, honey, sit here and talk." "What about?" Hertha took her place by Ellen's side. "What about? Why, about everything that's happened. I haven't heard yet of a thing you've been doing." "I haven't succeeded at anything." "I'd rather decide about that."