"Mercy on us!"

Miss Patty was overcome. She fell back in her chair, her hands trembling violently, her breath coming short and quick.

"My dear," cried Miss Witherspoon hurrying toward her and fanning her with the newspaper that lay on the table with the morning mail.

"It's incredible," the southern woman said. She picked up the letter she had been reading, scanned it a moment, and put it on the table again. Her companion, devoured with curiosity but strong in the belief that good manners required that she should show indifference, continued her ministrations for a few seconds and then turned to her own mail.

"You'll have to advise me," Miss Patty said tremulously, the letter wavering in her hand, her small head with its white hair shaking up and down as she talked. "Why should John and Lee have gone away this morning! I don't know what to do."

"If I can be of any service——"

"This letter is from an old friend, my dear, a very old friend. I haven't seen him for a long time—I'm such an invalid, you know—but he writes as an old friend should and asks me to break the news to the dear child as best I may."

"The dear child?" Miss Witherspoon echoed, interrogation in her voice.

"Yes, and she always has been a dear child; you know how I have cared for her and shown an interest in her. And to think that this should have happened! It's incredible."

"What has happened?" The northern woman's tone was peremptory. If she was to offer advice she would no longer be kept in suspense.

"Why, this amazing story. I should never believe it if it came from another source, but Bostwick Unthank is the best lawyer in the state. It is very considerate and polite, I must say, for him to write to me instead of to John, though Hertha of course is my maid—and then I used to know him very well indeed. But I can't believe it, I can't believe that such a thing could have happened."

Impatient at such incoherence and nervous garrulousness, Miss Witherspoon yet understood that something of vital importance was in the letter which Miss Patty waved back and forth, and unable longer to maintain her indifference she touched the old lady on the arm.

"Shall I read what your lawyer writes?" she asked, "or will you read it to me?"

"Oh, he isn't my lawyer," Miss Patty exclaimed, "I never had a lawyer in my life, I have never believed in getting into lawsuits. He's only an old friend. But his letter is of such importance that I will ask you to read it aloud to me. I want to be sure that I understand it."

Nothing could better have pleased Miss Witherspoon. She took up the typewritten sheet and in a clear, distinct voice began:

"How strange it seems," Miss Patty interpolated, "to have him address me in that formal way."

"It's a business letter," the reader explained.

"I know that," Miss Patty said tartly, "otherwise I should not have given it to you to read."

"'My dear Miss Merryvale,'" Miss Witherspoon began again, "'I am inclosing a letter to your maid, Hertha Williams, retailing to her an extraordinary piece of news. George Ogilvie, whom you will remember, I am sure, has died and in his will he leaves a small legacy to a granddaughter, Hertha Williams, the illegitimate child of his daughter Lillias who died two days after its birth. The birth was successfully concealed by placing the infant with a colored family. Evidently Ogilvie, at the last, felt unable to keep the secret for he leaves an account of the extraordinary proceeding, recognizes his granddaughter, and asks that she take the family name. It is likely to be a great shock to the young woman and I am inclosing the firm's letter to your care, knowing that you will understand in your great kindness how best to break the news.

"'Believe me, Madam, with esteem,

As Miss Witherspoon put down the letter and looked at her hostess's shaking head she wondered whether the lawyer had made a careful choice in his method of relating the story to Hertha; and she resolved to take a part herself, if advisable, in the breaking of the news. While extraordinary, it was tidings that a colored girl might easily bear. Two legacies, one of money, one of race, were wonderful gifts. "Where is Hertha?" she asked.

"Ellen stopped in this morning to say that she had been awake with a bad headache and had then overslept. The dear child, she should have all her strength for this news."

"Did you ever hear of anything like it before?"

"No, no, it is most extraordinary, most extraordinary. I remember George Ogilvie well, a handsome man. His wife was a pretty woman with a small mouth. They said she spent every penny he had. She died two years ago. You may be sure she would never have allowed the story to be known."

"Hertha should have known it years ago."

"No, my dear, no." Miss Patty sat erect ready to dispute such a suggestion. Her voice quavered and her head had not ceased to shake, but she was alert to defend her conception of what was right and proper. "She should never have known it. This has put a stain forever upon her mother's name."

"Her mother is long since dead," the northern woman answered sharply, "while the child is living. I can think of nothing more cruel than to save a daughter's honor by giving her infant to be reared by Negroes. It's frightful."

"I don't agree with you." Miss Patty was herself once more. "The whole thing is very sad and wicked, of course, but life among the Negroes is not frightful, they are the happiest people in the world. One day is just as good as another to them. If the sun doesn't shine this morning it will the next. Hertha won't know what trouble means until she becomes white."

"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.

"My darling!" Miss Patty held out her arms to her favorite. "There, dear, there, don't look so frightened, though I must say," glancing with scorn at her guest, "it would be enough to frighten any one into her grave to be told a piece of news that way. You are white, dear, and you have been left some money, and you ought to be very happy." And with many pats and kisses she told all of the story that she knew.

Hertha's letter was brief and ended by stating that she had been bequeathed two thousand dollars, and that, as all legacies left by the late George Ogilvie were to be paid at once, she was requested to come at her earliest convenience to the lawyer's office.

"What is she thinking about?" the two women asked themselves as the girl read her letter and said no word. But could they have looked into her mind they would have been perplexed to find an answer. Her brain was a blur of strange, magnificent impressions. A dying mother, an old man delaying restitution until after his death, money, freedom. As she looked down at her maid's dress, as she thought of herself last night crouched under the trees, she drew a deep breath. She was white, of good name. No one should play with her again and throw her away. In the multitude of emotions that rushed through her being the one that held her longest in its grip was pride. No white man now should expect her to give everything and in return receive only humiliation. "I'm white, I'm white," she repeated over and over to herself.

"Two thousand dollars is a good deal of money to get all at once, Hertha—or Miss Ogilvie, as I suppose I ought to say," Miss Witherspoon remarked, more to take Hertha's mind from herself than anything else. "I hope you'll use it wisely."

"Some of it," Hertha replied, "belongs to Mammy."

"She'll never touch it," Miss Patty said sharply; and in this she prophesied aright.

Hertha rose slowly and went into her mistress's bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Miss Patty called out.

"Making your bed," was the answer. "And then, if you don't mind, I'd like to go home."

Calling the girl to her, Miss Patty rose and said tenderly, "You're your own mistress now and you mustn't think of work this morning. Pomona can come upstairs and put things to rights. This has been a terrible excitement for you, terrible! If only John and Lee were home. How could they go away this particular morning!"

"I don't see that that makes any difference."

"Yes, of course it does; one needs a man in a case of business. But sit down, dear, get your sewing and we'll talk about it." Miss Patty settled herself again. "To think that you're an Ogilvie! Almost as good a family as the Merryvales."

"Miss Patty, I'm afraid I can't sit down and talk about it now."

"Of course, you must be excited, though you appear wonderfully calm. Don't you want to lie down on my bed?"

"No, I think I want to go home."

"Very well, you'll want to tell your mammy. And then you can begin packing your things."

"Packing my things?"

"Of course. You mustn't sleep another night in a darky's house."

"Oh," Hertha gasped.

Until now she had been thinking of herself in her relation to the white world. The past night had racked her, body and spirit, and to-day had brought release. She was white, she was rich, she had a name. Now, at Miss Patty's words she saw that in the world she was to enter she must walk alone. Her mother, the only mother she had ever known, who had given her home and food and tender care, who had prepared her breakfast for her that morning, who had washed the dress she had on, who had kissed her when she went away and told her not to work so hard, that her mammy could always make enough to care for them both—this mother was a "darky" under whose roof she must not sleep again.

"I'm going home," she said; and without another word left them.

"Poor little thing," remarked Miss Witherspoon, "it's very grand to be white, but she will find it lonely."

"Perhaps at first," the other answered, "but she'll soon get used to things. When I was little I cared more for Lindy, our cook's little girl, than for any one else in the world. We two played together the whole day long. She was a dear child, with big soft eyes and a laughing mouth. What fun we used to have! And if we got into a scrape her mammy'd see to it that no one knew more about it than was good for them. I cried my eyes out the day my mother said I was too old to play with Lindy any more. For months I couldn't bear to go by a pine tree where we'd had our best times together. And when I'd see Lindy she'd look so wistfully at me! But other things came to fill my life and they'll come to fill Hertha's."

"It's not at all the same thing," Miss Witherspoon said, "you had your home."

"And Hertha will make hers. You shall see."