Rising from her seat she went to the sink and turning on the faucet got a drink for herself. As she put down the glass she looked at her hands. "This is Tom's blood," she said, washing them under the running water. "White people are so brave! They never strike any one weaker than they! Why, Kathleen, he's just a little boy. It isn't long since he was in short trousers. I know, I made them for him."
She wiped her hands clean and stood looking beyond Kathleen into the world of men and women. Speech, usually so difficult, came to her in gusts of words, thoughts that clamored for expression, the pent-up thoughts that for many years had been pressing against her heart.
"White people are wicked. Not you, Kathleen, you are good and that's why people laugh at you and scorn you. They hate goodness. It is the way that old man said at the restaurant. People, white people, are cruel. They care only for themselves. What did they do for me in this world? They threw me out to die. I wasn't worth an hour's care. And the men, men who've said they loved me! Loved! They saw color in my face and they played with me or despised me. And they say they're so good!" The bitterness in her voice was pitiable. "They're always saying they're so good. They write about it and preach about it. We black people, we are bad. We are immoral and common and cheap. Well, I want to be with bad people. I've been with good people as long as I can bear. I want to be with bad people again."
"Don't go on so, dearie," Kathleen said, anguish in her voice. "Rest and see what to-morrow will bring. You'll kill yourself if you go on like this."
"Good!" Hertha cried again with infinite scorn. Then as though a sudden thought came to her, her whole manner softened. "I'll tell you who is good,—my mammy. She took me in. She didn't question whether I'd grow up pretty and clever, or ugly and dull. She took me in her arms. She's like that. She isn't thinking about herself, she's thinking about others. She don't care if they're black or white. I know, oh, I know. And if she dies before I get home I'm going to die too!"
Suddenly her strength gave way, her indignation, her angry pride. "And I was trying to be white," she moaned, "I was trying to be ashamed of her." She flung herself into her friend's arms, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I was trying to forget."
Then Kathleen came into her own. Soothingly, caressingly, she got Hertha out of her white dress with its bloodstains into a loose one of her own. She brought water and a towel and washed her face. She brushed back her tangled hair. And all the time she talked, sympathetically yet cheerfully, with rare tact turning the girl's attention from her own sorrow. Hope emanated from her kind face, from her running speech; until at length Hertha found herself sitting in a chair sipping a cup of tea, and smiling a little uncertainly at some odd remark.
"It's so good to be here," she said, looking with deep gratitude into Kathleen's face. "When I had to leave Tom, I hurried to you. I knew if you were home you'd take me in, but I was afraid you'd be caring for some one else. I was frightened to ring the bell."
Her friend smiled benignantly.
"It's just the same as ever, only prettier. You've been doing a lot of housecleaning."