good-by to Tom."
"Yes," said Hertha, and added almost confidentially, "you see, Tom's the baby. I took care of him when he wasn't any longer than that," indicating the length with her hands.
"You couldn't have been much longer yourself."
She shook her head smiling and then turned to go away.
"Can't we have a little talk?" he asked. "Don't run into the house such a wonderful morning as this. I say, what a day it is! A day for the gods—Zeus, Apollo, Diana—we ought to worship the sun!"
It was a wonderful morning. The newly risen sun sent its golden light through the grove, brightening the deep green leaves, showing the pale yellow in the ripening fruit; and then danced on to the river where it lay, a limitless mass of golden mist, upon the shining stream.
As Hertha stopped and looked out over the river, Merryvale stepped to her side. "You're as beautiful as a goddess," he said.
"Don't go, please," he cried as she moved away from from him. "Stop and play! Let's play ball. The goddesses, you know, did that. Here, catch!" and he threw an orange into her hands.
He was so near that she could scarcely fail to catch it, yet it slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground where she picked it up, awkwardly enough, and threw it back again.
He had moved away from her but was quick to catch her wavering throw. "Better next time," he said.
She grew more expert, lost her shyness, and the ball flew back and forth until, squeezed too hard in the man's strong hand, it collapsed into a sticky mass of skin and pulp.
"It was extravagant of you," Hertha laughed, as she watched him wipe his fingers. "You wouldn't let any one else waste good fruit."
"It wasn't wasted," he declared, "it gave us a good time. Isn't that a worthy way to end life?"
She did not answer. The play over, she was self-conscious again.
"Try once more," he cried, picking another orange.
"No, no," she answered. "I must be going."
"You aren't needed yet."
"Yes I am, truly. Miss Patty is wondering why I'm not there with the hot water."
He tossed the orange, but she dodged it and ran through the trees. Pursuing her, in a few seconds he was at her side.
"Please don't go," he pleaded.
"I must."
"Well, promise you'll come and play again."
"Perhaps."
"Promise!"
"Perhaps," and she left him.
The blood was throbbing in his temples as he went back to his trees. He had admired her beauty from the time he had first noticed her, three months before, moving about his home. What must her father have been to have given her such poise, such a delicate throat, such a pure white skin! And her charm did not end with her face or her carriage. Her speech was that of the white girl, not of the Negro—careful speech, learned, as it happened, of her northern teachers. He had not encountered her often these summer months, for she was Miss Patty's personal servant and spent her days in his aunt's upper rooms or on the gallery; but he never saw her that he did not want to speak with her, to see the light come to her questioning face. She seemed to him in every way a lady. What was she doing living in a black woman's home?
The mid-day meal at the great house was stirred from its usual quiet by a discussion of the visitor who was expected by the evening boat. The Merryvales had never taken boarders, but from time to time they had staying with them what the English call "paying guests." Every winter, two or three northerners, visitors from the year before or carefully introduced by former visitors, came to Merryvale and made a substantial payment for the privilege of living in the old house. Usually these guests were elderly ladies, either unmarried or with busy husbands who could not take the time to accompany them, and they lived quietly on the place; taking little walks, knitting, playing cards, and occasionally going by boat to the city for a day's shopping. Miss Patty depended on them for her entertainment more, perhaps, than she was ready to admit. They taught her a new game of solitaire or a new way of making a baby's sack, and they listened, with every appearance of attention, to her innumerable tales about her family. To-day's arrival was a Miss Witherspoon, a friend of one of their pleasantest Boston guests, and everything was being planned for her comfort.
"Put my best linen on the bed, Hertha," Miss Patty said as she came upstairs after her mid-day meal, "and you can take your sewing to the gallery while I have my nap."
Hertha did as she was bidden, and, the guest-room in perfect order, went out upon the shady corner of the upper porch. A wind was blowing from the river, tossing the gray moss of the live-oaks, and brushing against her fingers the thin lace she was trying to sew upon a dress. It called her to play, pushed the little curls in her eyes, and spilled the spool of thread upon the floor. She laughed to herself as she picked it up, and then sat, her work in her lap, looking wistfully out into the swaying moss and the green leaves.
So the gods and goddesses played at ball. Which god was he? Apollo, of course, the god of the sunlight, the gold gleaming in his ruddy hair. What good times they must have had in those old days when no one seemed to be busy, when you might run through the meadows singing as you went, when no one minded if you danced in the moonlight and played in the morning. Why should you not do such simple, happy things!
She took up her needle again, and of a sudden thought of Tom going away alone. The remembrance of the boy's face held her to her task.
Along the lane came an automobile, its horn tooting as it bumped over the uneven road. Hertha started, and putting down her work watched to see the car stop in front of the Merryvale door. It was most unusual to have guests arrive in this fashion and at this hour. The men were not about; Pomona, the cook, was unequal to receiving such a visitor, so though it was not her specified task, Hertha, mindful for the good ordering of the house, went to the door.
Descending from the automobile was an alert-looking lady, neither young nor old, in a plain, good-fitting, tailor-made suit and small hat, with the business-like air of one who has done much traveling and is accustomed to finding herself in new surroundings.
"I am Miss Witherspoon," she said at once. "I had expected to arrive later in the afternoon by boat, but it seemed wiser at the last to come part of the way by train. I hope I am not inconveniencing you by my early arrival."
"It is no inconvenience," Hertha replied, "but I am sorry that Miss Merryvale is lying down."
"Don't think of disturbing her," the newcomer said. And then, smiling at Hertha, asked, "Is this another Miss Merryvale?"
"No," Hertha answered, "I am Miss Merryvale's maid."
She was quite accustomed to being taken for a white girl, and felt no embarrassment; but the same could not be said of Miss Witherspoon. That well-bred lady almost stared; and then, turning, dismissed her car and followed Hertha, who had laden herself with bags, to the bedroom.
"I hope everything is as you like it," the girl said to the "paying guest" who looked with approval at the cool room, high-ceilinged, with white walls, white iron bed and simple furnishings.
"Thank
