"It doesn't do any harm to write; then when we go to see them they will know who you are."
"Are you telling every one about me?" The question came with a touch of anger.
"Why, yes, what else should I do? You have to tell something of your past, and how much better to have it known so that there will be no questioning. I assure you every one will be most considerate. Your story, with the legacy left you, has a touch of romance; and what a pretty name, too, 'Hertha,' Is it German?"
"Perhaps."
"Please excuse me," the Boston woman said as she moved apologetically toward the door, "I shouldn't have come in for I know you're tired of all our talk, but I had a new idea and I wanted you to hear it."
She looked pleasant as she spoke and Hertha smiled back, but when the door was shut the girl threw herself face downward upon the bed. It was a new thought to her that people would know her story, and she resented it. It was partly to escape the story that she was leaving here, and now she was to be discussed and pointed at in Boston as the white girl who grew up among Negroes. Instead of escaping from her past it was to follow her into the land where she had expected to be free.
Another knock at the door. Hertha rose slowly, and without opening, called, "Who is it?"
"Jes' me, Miss Hertha."
She opened, to find the cook, Pomona, outside.
"Some one wantin' ter speak wid you, Miss Hertha."