Hurrying past the kitchen and by the cabins, Hertha's mind began to work quickly. At first she had been too full of the remembrance of the previous night to recognize fully what had befallen her; but now, with a sharp delight that carried pain with it, she saw herself in the white world. She was so accustomed to the circumscription of the world of black people that only when freedom was granted did she fully realize her slavery. As the slave was bound to its master so she was bound to the Negroes, unable, except through deceit or sin, to leave their world. And suddenly the bond was gone and she was free. With her little fortune she could go out into a marvelous new life without a thought of race. A white-skinned girl among black people, she had often winced at the coarse jokes or pitying remarks that had been made upon her appearance. White men had leered at her, and she had never known when she would be free from insult. But after to-day she would take the place that belonged to her. She would no longer be a "white-faced nigger," but Hertha Ogilvie—Miss Ogilvie, as Miss Witherspoon had said—the granddaughter of a distinguished southern judge.
As the Williams cottage came into sight, Hertha's thoughts suddenly changed and the white world slipped from her as she saw her black mother standing in the doorway. Running forward, she threw her arms about the old woman's neck and broke into passionate sobs, half of excitement, half of dread, but that to her mother meant only sorrow.
"Honey, baby, why you cryin'? Who hurt my baby? You ain't rightly been you'self, not since Tom lef'. Tell you' mammy, dear."
Her mother led her into her room, and there, as they sat together on the bed, Hertha tried to tell her story. She made one or two excited attempts, and then, pressing her hands together, said simply: "I'm white!"
"Oh, my Gawd!" her mother cried.
The two women stood up, the black one looking into the beautiful white face with its clear, dark eyes, its sweet mouth, its little trembling chin. As Hertha thought of it afterwards it seemed to her that her mother said good-by to her at that moment. Then the big, heavy mouth broke and it was the mother who was sobbing in her child's arms.
Hertha was a long time telling her story. When she described the little that she knew of her birth the colored woman cried angrily: "De dirty hogs! Dat's de way dey treats de black chillen—I allays knows dat—t'row 'em out fer us ter care fo'; neber a helpin' hand fer de chile o' der sin. But ter treat der own like it was an outcast, oh, Lawd." At the story of the will she grew much excited. "You's got some money, honey, I's glad o' dat. Seems like I can see you gwine away ef you's somet'ing dat's you' own." The suggestion, timidly given, that some of it belonged to her was received with regal anger. "You want ter pay me?" she asked. And Hertha's swift, tearful denial ended with a kiss and the agreement between them that that subject be forever closed. Her pleasure in the thought of the name Hertha was to bear was real indeed. "An' dere ain't no borrowed finery 'bout it," she declared in triumph.
It was a hard day. Hertha did not return to Miss Patty, and by the time afternoon arrived the news had spread, and neighbor after neighbor came to learn more of the amazing story. How the girl wished them away! She wanted to be by herself, to think what it all meant. Above all she wanted to talk to Ellen, to Ellen who had not yet come in and who might learn the story from some child. As soon as she could find a chance to get away, she ran from the cabins on through the pines to the school. Her heart beat violently and then stopped for a moment as she saw Lee Merryvale coming toward her. Turning, she hurried back to her home, entered her bedroom and shut the door. He would not dare to obtrude there.
"Hertha, Hertha darling!" It was Ellen who was knocking and in a moment she had her sister in her arms.
"I'm so glad for you, dear," Ellen said.