A knock at her door. She did not open it but asked who was there. There was no answer; and though the knock was repeated she made no motion to open the door. No, she would not talk with him. He had despised her, and now, as Ellen said, she could despise him. There was tonic in the thought. "Hertha!" a voice called. She was standing at the window and despite herself looked down to where Lee Merryvale stood below. "Come!" he cried. It sounded like a command. She shook her head angrily and walked back into the room. This was persecution. There was no place for her. Mammy's home was closed and in this she must continually evade one of the household. Another knock. This time it was Miss Witherspoon. "May I come in just for a moment?" that lady said. Hertha smiled pleasantly but inwardly felt resentment. "I want so much to let you know what I've been thinking about," Miss Witherspoon announced as she entered the room. "I've just remembered a nice old couple whom I haven't seen for more than a year who live only a block from the Institute. I believe they would be delighted to take you to board." "Yes?" "Mrs. Palmer Field. I remember her well now. Her husband at one time was a clerk in a bank, though I don't know what he may be doing at present. The last time I saw him he looked too old to be a clerk. Probably they would be very glad to take you in, and would charge you only a dollar more than at Clay House. And there is something, you know, in what Miss Merryvale says about your having some social life. They are quiet, elderly people who sometimes take a student to board. I'll write and tell them about you and see whether they will take you in." "I would rather wait, Miss Witherspoon; we start North in a few days." "It doesn't do any harm to write; then when we go to see them they will know who you are." "Are you telling every one about me?" The question came with a touch of anger. "Why, yes, what else should I do? You have to tell something of your past, and how much better to have it known so that there will be no questioning. I assure you every one will be most considerate. Your story, with the legacy left you, has a touch of romance; and what a pretty name, too, 'Hertha,' Is it German?" "Perhaps." "Please excuse me," the Boston woman said as she moved apologetically toward the door, "I shouldn't have come in for I know you're tired of all our talk, but I had a new idea and I wanted you to hear it." She looked pleasant as she spoke and Hertha smiled back, but when the door was shut the girl threw herself face downward upon the bed. It was a new thought to her that people would know her story, and she resented it. It was partly to escape the story that she was leaving here, and now she was to be discussed and pointed at in Boston as the white girl who grew up among Negroes. Instead of escaping from her past it was to follow her into the land where she had expected to be free.