"You're to have Tom's room now, Sister," Ellen said as they started for bed.
Hertha expostulated. "You need a room to yourself, Ellen, I know you do."
Ellen knew it too, but she was desirous to give her sister everything within her power. "No, I'm all right," she said decidedly. "It's all arranged. Mother and I didn't say anything before because we wanted to surprise you. You've wanted, I know, to be by yourself, dear; and Tom would be glad to think you were in his room."
She showed her sister the little things she had done for her comfort, and with a kiss left her to herself. It had been a long day and the young girl went at once to bed and fell asleep. But after a little she awoke and lay for hours in the still heat of the night, living again the morning's happenings. She went over in her mind, her heart beating fast, the foolish little game that carried with it so much happiness. He thought her as beautiful as a goddess; and he had not said it cheaply as though she were some common, gaily daubed plaything that one dangled to-day to throw away to-morrow. His eyes looked honestly into hers. He was strong and capable, loving the fresh air and sunshine and the green trees. He was gentle, kind to the people here, kind to her. With her eyes fixed on the dim window square that saved the room from utter darkness, she dreamed of his near presence, feeling his breath upon her cheek, until, her whole body swept with emotion, she clenched her hands and pressed them to her lips to keep back the welling tears. For then came the dread reality: her color, her station, these two facts loomed above her, fell and crushed her with their weight. No young white man should choose as his companion a Negro servant. She must forget the morning playtime, and never commit the fault again. Striving to drive him from her thoughts, she made plans for the morrow—the finishing of Miss Patty's dress, the letter she would write to Tom. And, tossing on her bed, between her new-found happiness and her misgivings, she cried herself to sleep.
Is there any greater difference than that between night and morning? All the hobgoblins, the fears, the morbid misgivings disappear with the bright sunlight and the feel of cold water. As the fresh drops fell from Hertha's face she was sure she had misjudged the pleasant facts of yesterday. She coiled her hair that fell in little curls as the brush left its silky fineness, and hummed a song to her smiling face in the glass. Fastening the last hook of her blue cotton dress, the soft, gray-blue that she and Miss Patty liked, she went in to help the others with the breakfast, master of her fate. There was no hesitation in her step when, a little earlier than her wont, she turned toward the orange grove.
"Honey," her mother called after her. "Jes' ask Pomona ef she'll gib me her big stew-pot to-day. I's layin' ter make some jelly. An' don' work too hard. Dat ole black woman's allus tryin' ter git you ter do her work."
CHAPTER IV
"Good morning, Princess."
"Good morning." And then, shyly, "It isn't nice to drop from a goddess even to a princess."