"The dwarfs were kinder to her than her own people."
Merryvale, with a hasty glance at the girl, sensed the ugly reality of his story and, turning very red, began plucking the dead leaves from the nearest tree.
"It must be wonderful," he remarked, rather clumsily, "to be a new person every day. Who will you be to-morrow?"
"Miss Patty's maid." All her brightness had gone and she moved as if about to leave him.
"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "not that! Cinderella, perhaps. To-morrow you will be Cinderella before the fairy godmother came to take her to the ball."
"Yes, because nothing had happened then."
"Not before the ball, but after; the next morning when the prince searches with the golden slipper in his hand."
"If I were going to be Cinderella at all," Hertha was gently emphatic, "I would be at the ball itself, a beautiful ball in a long, golden room filled with lights and blooming flowers, where every one wore filmy silk dresses and danced to swaying music."
"You and I would dance together, you in soft blue silk, the color of the dress you have on, and I—what should I wear?"
"Pale pink satin," she answered, laughter in her eyes, "and your hair in long curls."
He chuckled. "What fools they must have looked, those Fauntleroy princes. I wonder if they ever did a stroke of work?"
"No, others planted while they picked the blossoms."
"There's a heap of that in this world, isn't there? Do you know," earnestly, "one reason I came home was because I thought I'd like to see a Merryvale digging his own garden."
"You do it very nicely."
"Thank you." He said this seriously, and then, realizing for a moment her station, turned away.
"What's this?" She was running among the trees; he dashed after her and in a moment had her cornered.
"The clock struck twelve."
"No it didn't! Truly it didn't. Besides, you're not Cinderella to-day, you're Snowdrop. You mustn't change parts as fast as that. It isn't Cinderella until to-morrow."
"I'm afraid I forgot."
"Of course you did. Come now, and play."
She shook her head, and then half whispered, looking wistfully into his face, "My clock is always striking."
They stood close to one another. The sun shining through the leaves on her young face showed all its beauty; the small mouth with its delicately curved upper lip; the line of hair over the forehead, two graceful curves that came together in a little peak; the deep, shining eyes that dropped now under his gaze.
"Just one kiss," he pleaded.
She shook her head, and he could see her hand clench as though to stop her trembling.
His own trembled as he placed it over hers and stood so close that, though he did not touch her, his presence felt like an embrace.
All the emotions of the night of which she had believed herself master returned, but with redoubled strength. Her whole self, the slender body, the delicate senses, the shy spirit that before had rested happy in the love of home and wood and river, was a wild tumult of passionate desire. To lift up her face and kiss him would be to enter through the golden gates of paradise. But while her heart beat so fast that the blood flooded her cheeks and she was Snowdrop no longer, she did not raise her head.
And then a cock that had strayed from its family among the pines and wandered in their direction raised itself upon its toes and began to crow.
They both started, the pink on Hertha's cheeks turned to lifeless white, and like a shadow she slipped away.
Merryvale stood motionless for a time among the trees. "You wouldn't think it," he said to himself, looking out upon the golden river, "but it's a black world."
"You're late," declared Pomona shortly, as Hertha entered the kitchen. The girl did not answer, but, glancing at the clock, saw that she was on time.
Pomona was not in good humor; indeed, Pomona's gloomy moods were frequent, and the household, to some extent, revolved about them. "I don't know what I should do without Hertha," Miss Patty was fond of saying, when Pomona was especially exasperating, "she is always the same."
But on this day, if Miss Patty had noticed, she would have found in her maid's manner a little trembling unquiet. She did not notice, however, being deeply occupied with Miss Witherspoon, who was proving a stimulating companion. The two had exchanged notes upon the subject of religion to find themselves in pleasant accord, and now were on that most dangerous ground, domestic service.
"You have a wonderful maid," Miss Witherspoon said, after examining the delicate, handmade waist which Hertha had just finished.
"Hertha is surely a treasure. But she likes it here, so don't, my dear lady, hope by offering her better wages, to entice her North."
"I had no thought of anything so basely ungrateful to you."
"Others have, then. But Hertha's not restless like that sister of hers, Ellen—though I'm sure they're no relation. I can't endure that girl. Her influence isn't good over my maid."
"Have I seen Ellen yet?"
"No and you won't see her about this place. She teaches in the colored school."
"How interesting! I shall have to go to her."
Miss Patty's face showed disapproval bordering on disgust. Miss Witherspoon was not the first of her guests who had at once expressed an interest in Ellen, and, later, helped on the already over-prosperous school. She turned the conversation back to her favorite.
"There are not many girls like Hertha to be found to-day. She has a natural aptitude for service, and her white blood makes her very intelligent. My cousin, Carrie (she died in Savannah two years ago), had a maid like that who was the most faithful creature—her constant nurse for fifteen years."
"Indeed!"
"I'm fixing to have Hertha with me for as long as I live."
"But don't you think she'll get married—she's so pretty."
"I hope not; I certainly hope not. I don't encourage her to go out to any of the parties with the rough boys and girls here. But she herself realizes that she's above them in station. No, Hertha will do much better not to marry. I can understand her falling in love with a colored man of her own complexion, but we haven't confidence in the 'yaller niggers,' as the darkies call them. They have the bad qualities of both races, you know; they're a thieving lot."
"Yes?" ejaculated Miss Witherspoon, and then, a little maliciously, "Does Hertha steal?"
"Hertha? Why, of course not!" Miss Patty looked very indignant. "Have you lost anything?"
"No, no," Miss Witherspoon answered quickly, anxious to make her question clear. "I only thought you said that all mulattoes stole."
There are few things more exasperating than to have one's generalities taken literally. Miss Patty felt provoked both for herself and for her maid. "Hertha," she explained, with some feeling, "is an unusual girl, with, I reckon, an unusual heritage. It is of benefit to her to stay here in private service with a lady. She is an affectionate child and a great favorite with me. As I grow older I hope she will want to stay and make life pleasant for me as I have tried to make it pleasant for her."
At that moment Hertha came to where they sat upon the porch.
"Haven't I, honey?"
"Haven't you——" Hertha questioned.
"Made life pleasant for you?"
"Oh, yes indeed."
"Miss