There are few people who look always the same; we vary in our appearance with a headache or a drop in the thermometer; but perhaps nothing is so quick to change our aspect as a reversal in our fortunes. Hertha had worn a pretty suit before, she had been well-shod, but never previously had she stood with such a quiet air of self-confidence. She blushed at Ellen's greeting, her head drooped, and she was Hertha Williams again.

"Oh, it's great!" Ellen exclaimed. "Don't droop your head. Think what a pity it would have been if Hertha Ogilvie had turned out to look like Minnie Barker!"

A picture of Minnie Barker, very freckled, with a snub nose, reddish hair and a shirtwaist that was always pulling up from her skirt at the back, came to Hertha and she laughed. Then sobering, she said, "I'm not going to any one who'll care. If I had a relative or two!"

"There are relatives and relatives," Ellen answered sagely. "This world is such a raffle you might not have inherited the right kind."

"It isn't likely," Hertha added, "that I'd have gotten another set as good as the first," and she smiled at her former sister.

"Good morning, honey," said Mammy, appearing with a plate of biscuit.

They joked a good deal during the meal to which Hertha had invited herself and which she had planned even to the guava jelly, slightly liquid, amorously sweet, which Miss Witherspoon a.s.sured her she would never get in the North. The meal over they went outside and the visitor stood with Mammy while she fed the sc.r.a.ps to the chickens, watching them peck and push at one another, each trying to get the best piece.

"Hertha," Ellen said hesitatingly, "there's something Mammy and I want to say."

Hertha shrank within herself. She was fearful when Ellen started in this serious tone, dreading too careful an a.n.a.lysis of their emotions.

Understanding this the older woman spoke.

"Honey, dear," she said looking at Hertha with moist eyes, "you's gwine away alone, for we's alone ef we ain't wid some'un we lobes. I 'spects it gwine ter be mighty hard fer you, but ef eber you's discouraged jes'

'member dat here in dis lil' cabin dere's you' sister an' you' mammy, lobin' yer an' prayin' fer yer day an' night. You's close in our hearts, foreber and eber, an' we knows we's close in yours.

"But, honey, dar's anudder t'ing. Keep us in you' heart, but don' try ter lib in our worl', not at fust. It ain't gwine ter be so easy, allus ter remember as you's white. You can't fergit a lifetime in a day. An'

it's mighty mean ter be swingin' fust on one foot, den on de udder, not knowin' whar you stan'. When yer gits yer place firm in de white worl', den yer kin turn back ter look at de black. But not now, dearie, not now."

Hertha could not speak, but she nodded her head in acceptance of her exile.

"We don't need to worry," Ellen said with a laugh that had a sob in it.

"We sha'n't have to wait long. You'll soon stand on both your feet."

"I ain't gwine ter de dock," Mammy announced when Ellen in a moment said it was time for them to leave. "I don't wan' no white folks starin' at me an' talkin'; I'se gwine to say good-by hyar in my home. Baby,"

turning to the child of her adoption, "you's so pretty-like, allus be good."

"Yes, Mammy," Hertha promised.

"Lay you' head on my breas'. Dere! Lil lamb, you's gwine out inter de worl' alone. But you know de way ter safety. Lobe de Lord Jesus. Don'

never forgit Him fer a moment, but keep close ter His bosom."

On the dock Miss Witherspoon was fidgeting among the hand-luggage. She looked annoyed when Hertha came up with Ellen. "Oh, here you are," she said. "Don't you think you had better express this bag? No. Why not? But I thought I explained to you that you could express it on the train.

However, it doesn't much matter. How many pieces of hand-luggage have you? Two? And you have two other things to carry, your hand-bag and your umbrella. It's always well to count the number of pieces you have and then when you get up from your seat you can go over them--one, two, three, four. Do you see? I'm sorry though that you didn't pack so that you could express one of the bags through."

Ellen looked on, feeling that she was only beginning to realize how much of tragedy there was in this good-by. Not even she had appreciated, until she stood there on the dock, how far removed was the world of white and black. There was something terrible and ridiculous in sending her little sister away with a stranger, and denying to her the right to know again the people among whom she had been reared and who had given her the training and the education that made it possible for her so easily to take her place in the white world. "Well, I'm mighty glad I was ambitious," she thought with a rush of pride as she looked at the well-bred, ladylike figure in its stylish traveling dress. "Supposing she'd been handed over to poor white trash!"

"Ellen," Hertha whispered, "I'm going to try to make something of myself but I'm more easily discouraged than you."

"You must be courageous, Hertha. Go ahead and do things."

"I don't know how to do that. But perhaps things will happen."

Miss Patty had said good-by at the house, but now Pomona came hurrying down with a basket of j.a.panese persimmons for the journey. With the bunch of red roses these made two more things not to be forgotten when you left your seat, and Hertha felt Miss Witherspoon look disapprovingly at them. Then with the rising sun the boat came toward them around the bend seeming, to the young girl who stood there, like some sea monster that would drag her away from everything familiar and carry her to an alien land. She grew almost sick with fear, but a glance at Ellen made her rally. A step up the gangplank and she had left the world of friends, of mother and sister and brother, of lovely skies, of beautiful trees, of mockingbirds and whistling quail, the world of long walks with Tom and of evenings out under the stars; the world that had been a world of rest and peace until Tom left it on this same boat less than two months ago.

"The porter has both your bags, I hope," said Miss Witherspoon anxiously. But it proved that Lee Merryvale was carrying them, and as she spoke he deposited them at Hertha's side. Then, taking off his hat, he said good-by. "I am coming North this winter," he remarked decisively, "and I shall expect to see you. I hope you'll enjoy going into a new land."

"I think I shall," Hertha managed to answer, and was grateful that he had not tried to shake hands. When he left them the moorings were cast off, and the boat turned out into the stream.

On the dock stood the Merryvales, father and son. A little way from them, by herself, was Ellen. Now they were going past the great house, the trees were tossing their mossy beards and from the gallery Miss Patty was waving to her. Cows grazed in the river, and high above a turkey buzzard soared, gazing down to find death on the earth. Then the river made a bend and the familiar world was gone.

Before she left the boat Hertha took out a letter from Tom and read it once again. Tom had shown his thoughtfulness in every line. There was no surprise in his receipt of the news and there was much gladness for her.

"Sister," he wrote, "we are all in a cage, we black folk. It's a big cage, and we get used to it and have a good time in it, and after a while we don't much notice when we strike our wings against the bars.

But it's a cage. Do you remember that funny, old white woman in the city who used to let us look in her room and see her family of canaries? They were breeding right there in her parlor, building their nests and bringing up their young. Those canaries were just as busy and as much taken up with their goings on as if they had been out in the trees. But they were prisoners all the same. Well, they've opened the cage door for you and set you free. It wasn't right for you to be shut up; it weren't meant for you. Now you're free and folks won't come just to play with you in your cage. I'm glad, Sister, and don't forget you're free."

"I wonder if I really am free," Hertha said to herself. "I'd like to find out."

The railroad journey was uneventful to Miss Witherspoon, but full of novelty to Hertha. Accustomed to the jim-crow coach, the Pullman with its comfortable bed, its luxurious dining-car, was a revelation. But she showed no sign of unfamiliarity and moved through the day, and even climbed to her high perch at night as though it were a usual routine.

But all the time she was revolving a plan and wondering whether she would have the courage to carry it out. She had told Ellen that she could not go ahead and make things happen, but she felt that it was possible, if you did not like a thing, quietly to avoid it. The conception of freedom of which Tom wrote was taking a strong hold upon her. As she lay awake looking up at the lighted ceiling of the car, feeling the presence of the many people traveling like herself to the strange North, people who were now of her world, she grew impatient at the circ.u.mscription that was being prepared for her. The story of her life had been told to Miss Witherspoon's friends, Miss Witherspoon had planned her future, and she would be an ever pervasive factor in her life in the months to come. Hertha suspected that to be with her would be like going to school again. But the cage door was open and she might, if she had the courage, make a genuine flight, alone. Yes, alone. If she could not be with those she loved, she did not wish at once to link her life to some one whom she was growing to dislike, some one who intended to fashion the order of her ways. Why not slip away from this new chaperon who, after all, was only a chance acquaintance? So she reasoned as she lay awake at night, and as she looked out of her window during the day while the train swung steadily northward and prosperous cities, belching factories, well tilled fields, great barns, and s.p.a.cious farmhouses whizzed past, her courage and her desire for adventure grew.

She had money, she was white, she would learn what it meant to be free.

"We shall soon be in New York," Miss Witherspoon said on the second day.

"We arrive, you know, at the Pennsylvania station and we take a taxi there for the Grand Central. I am sorry that I can't stop to show you New York, but I delayed my departure from Merryvale longer than I expected, that I might bring you with me, and it is imperative that I go at once to Boston."

"I certainly do not want to put you to any inconvenience."

Hertha's tone was polite, but at heart she felt angry. She wanted to see New York and her companion had killed all desire she might have had to see Boston. She was hot with excitement when later they drew into the station.

"What did you give your bags to another boy for?" Miss Witherspoon questioned.

They were in a crowd of people, hurrying off the trains. Miss Witherspoon had seized upon a porter to whom she had given her luggage, and, on turning around, had found that her companion had extravagantly engaged another.

The young girl murmured an unintelligible reply and her chaperon, intent upon getting a taxi, hurried on ahead.

"Let's not walk so fast," Hertha said to her boy, who answered, smiling, "Reckon you're from the South."

"Reckon I am," was the reply.

"Your friend's getting away from us!" he announced after they had moved slowly down the platform.

"I want her to."

Meanwhile Miss Witherspoon, reaching a taxi, had her luggage settled in it and then looked back for her charge, who was nowhere to be seen.

Nervous, yet sure that Hertha would appear in a moment, she stood by her cab, refusing to get inside.

"I got ter go," cried the chauffeur.

"I've got to wait," said Miss Witherspoon emphatically, "until my companion comes."

Without a word the man drove off to take his stand in the rear of the line while another taxi swept up, gathered in a group of travelers, and went on.

"How provoking," Miss Witherspoon cried. She was separated from her luggage and from Hertha. Never was anything so stupid.

Suddenly some one spoke at her elbow. "The young lady asked me to give you this."