There was silence. Kathleen had not taken a fancy to Mr. Brown.
"The school that he likes the best is in Brooklyn, and——" Hertha swallowed hard. If she were going to say anything it must be now. "To-day I looked at a room over there, near the school."
"In Brooklyn, good Lord! Why, nobody goes to Brooklyn except to be buried! You can't mean Brooklyn! What do you want to be leaving here for anyway?"
Kathleen got off the bed. As Hertha remained silent she moved out of the little alcove. "Of course, if you're wanting to go, Hertha, it's not for me to keep you."
"I want to talk with you about it. I haven't decided yet, and I don't want to leave you, but there're so many things to think about."
Hertha's voice was plaintive, for she was almost in tears.
"I suppose it's that long-legged southern chap. Well, if it's a man trying to get you away, there's no hope for me. But how you can like that thin-nosed, sallow-faced son of a snuff-dipping mother is beyond me."
Kathleen did not see Hertha's flushed cheeks, but she felt her silent protest. Remembering the words of the Major, the call of youth and springtime, she went back and again seated herself by Hertha's side.
"It's a shame they should be calling me out to-night and you and me needing a long talk together. But that's my life and perhaps it's lonely here for a young girl like you."
"I am lonely," Hertha declared, "when you are away."