"It's too bad, then, that you don't have more white children brought up by blacks," Miss Witherspoon retorted. "Why not give the poor unfortunates a fair chance in life?" Sarcasm was lost upon her companion. "Grown-ups must take responsibility whether they like it or not," Miss Patty said sententiously. "Negroes are a child race and the white race must govern them. Hertha will be a grown person now, one of the ruling class, and seeing she's an Ogilvie it's likely she'll take easily to the position." "Hertha has always seemed grown-up to me, too serious for her youth. She loves to day dream, but I don't believe she ever dreamed of anything so wonderful as this. What do you suppose she'll do?" "Marry, of course, as every white girl should. The fact that you and I sent away our beaus makes us all the surer that others shouldn't. Her legacy should be a help in getting her settled." "Now I hope she won't get married for some time." Miss Patty was indignant. "And I hope she'll marry at once before she becomes too fond of her liberty. When she was colored it was different. I always discouraged, as you know, her going with the men of her race. Dear me, how mixed up I am getting. And she is really white! I shall have to remember that. Dear, dear!" "Here comes Hertha now." Looking up Miss Patty saw Hertha in her maid's dress, her cheeks a little whiter than usual, dark shadows under her eyes, but modest, quiet, standing in the doorway. "My dear," she began, and collapsed again. Hertha ran to her all anxious attention. "Is it bad news?" she asked turning to Miss Witherspoon while she rubbed her mistress's hands. "No, Hertha," was the answer, "it isn't bad news. It's about you." The girl grew sick with fright. What had they found out? "It's this," Miss Witherspoon said, pushing over the letter inclosed in Miss Patty's and addressed to the girl. "What are you doing?" Miss Patty recovered at once when she saw her prerogative as vendor of news about to be destroyed. "Bostwick Unthank wrote to me that the shock might not be too great. Don't look at that letter, honey," turning to Hertha with deep affection and concern in her voice. "Wait till I've told you about it. It's from a lawyer, my dear, and it seems a little money has been left you. We don't know how much but it should be a little help, I'm sure." "Who has left it?" Hertha asked. She was tense with excitement, afraid. She could not dissociate this happening with the night through which she had passed. She dared not trust herself to tear open her own letter before these two women. Despairing, she turned to Miss Witherspoon who stood quiet, composed, just as one of her teachers would have stood at school. "Please tell me at once," she asked, "what this means?" And Miss Witherspoon answered in a matter-of-fact tone such as a teacher might have used: "It seems, Hertha, that you are not colored but white." The girl turned from one woman to another. "Don't mock me," she gasped.