"But I want to work," the white girl insisted. "I don't want you two to do everything."
"It ain't much we kin do," the old woman went on as though apologizing for the house, "not much fer an Ogilvie. Miss Hertha Ogilvie, dat's what dey'll call yer. Miss Hertha Ogilvie! Oh, my Lawd!"
Hertha rose from the seat into which she had been pushed and began to set the table. But while handling the knives and forks and smoothing the tablecloth into place, she found herself repeating, "Miss Hertha Ogilvie, Miss Hertha Ogilvie, Miss"!
How the white people had steadily refused to give her that title! No matter how refined she was, how well educated, since she had colored blood she must always hear her first name. But Lee Merryvale had said, "Miss Hertha," and Miss Witherspoon had said, "Miss Ogilvie."
"Sister," she said, turning to Ellen with attempted gaiety, "can't we have sugared sweet potatoes to-night to celebrate? You cook them so well. Just think, I'm going to have two thousand dollars. Isn't that rich?"
"It depends on how you use it," replied the always practical Ellen. "If you want you can get rid of it quickly enough; but I do hope, Hertha, you'll use some of it for your education."
"What do you want me to study?"
"You know what I told you the other day, but now you'll have a better chance of success."
"You mean dressmaking. I think myself I'll try stenography."
It was a wild statement, an exciting jump into an unknown business world.