"My ole man an' me, we set an' talk an' talk ater de baby been fed an' put ter sleep an' Ellen done shut her eyes at las'. We was honest folk, maybe we hadn't oughter kep' de baby?" Mammy bent over to kiss Hertha. "But we did, you knows dat, chile, an' we ain't neber regret it. Dat chile's bin a blessin' eber since she open her eyes, lyin' dar in de candlelight. Dat chile were her daddy's delight an' her mammy don't know how ter go tru a day widoud her. An' as fer her sister, Ellen, she'd walk tru fire ter git her what she ought ter hab. She come into a poor home, sure 'nough, but she welcome ter all it hold." Mammy finished her recital with a broad wave of the hand, while Hertha clasped her round the neck and gave her a hug that ruffled the pretty curls, the curls that alone linked her to the colored race. "Now tell me about my name?" she questioned when they had settled back again. "You asks dat, honey, an' de ain't nuthin' ter tell. Seems like I made it up, an' den agin, seems like it were meant fer Bertha, but kinder gentler an' deeper, same as you." "You never heard any least thing about my people?" The question was asked with a certain knowledge of the answer, and yet with a wistful interrogation. Never before had this foundling, dropped into a black preacher's cabin, desired so much to know something of the two lives that gave her birth. "No, neber." Mammy's answer was final. "Dey gib yer a start an' leab de res' fer us. I used ter fear as some un ud claim yer, but I stop dat now. De pusson I fears is de man as my baby'll say yes to when he axes her ter be his wife." "He won't come, Mammy." "Quit yer foolin'!" The old woman laughed into the serious young face. "Don' I know how de fellers at school broke der hearts ober yer, an' out in de city you was de putties' gal o' de lot. I's feared sometimes dis ain't de place fer a young t'ing like you." "I'm very happy here," Hertha made answer. "I's glad o' dat. Ellen, now, she's t'inkin' as yer need company." "I wish Ellen wouldn't worry over me." "She ain't worryin', honey." The mother spoke soothingly, seeing that her remark had awakened annoyance. "She jes' wants yer ter hab what's rightly yours." "I'm very happy," Hertha reiterated. "Only," she added, "I do miss Tom. He used to love to be on the porch with us Sunday afternoons, didn't he?" "Yes, dearie." "I think Tom's going to be a splendid man; you can always trust him." "Dat's so, dat's so. An' dat's de bes' t'ing yer can say ob any man." They sat together a little longer, the sun lengthening the shadow of the cabin upon the white sand, and then, with the coming twilight, went within. CHAPTER VII