Kathleen said soothingly, "if they'll let
him go so soon."

"He is badly hurt," Hertha cried, her voice sharp and hoarse. "But he's
going with me to-morrow. We must go. My mother is dying."

A vivid remembrance of Hertha's avowal that her mother had been dead for
many years flashed through Kathleen's mind.

"Yes, my mother," Hertha said, noting the look of bewilderment. "My
mother, my own mother. Don't you touch me," her voice rose to a scream
and she pushed her friend back as she approached her. "You don't want to
know me, you don't want to be near me. I'm colored!"

With a sob Kathleen drew the girl close in her arms. The body she
clasped was tense as steel, but regardless of resistance she held the
slender form close, kissed the cold cheek, touched with her lips the
soft hair and little ear. With her strong, capable hand she caressed the
girl's small head and kept repeating, "My darling, as though that
mattered!" and "Why should you be thinking anything of that!" and "As if
that mattered, mavourneen!"

Hertha, still tense, lifted her face. "Don't try to comfort me," she
said. "I don't ask for any one's pity. You mustn't say what you don't
mean."

"What do you take me for?" Affectionate indignation was in Kathleen's
speech. "What sort of devil would I be if I cared for a thing like that!
Now don't fret any more, darling, but sit down while I make you a cup of
tea."

Hertha did not move from where she stood, but gripped her friend, a hand
on either shoulder, looking into her face. And as Kathleen looked back
she felt as if the gleaming eyes, utterly sorrowful, were searching her
very soul. Cursing herself for her former selfishness, she prayed that
her heart might be read aright that the love which overflowed it for
this friend whose hidden sorrow she had never understood, might shine
now in her face. She said nothing, understanding that Hertha sought for
an avowal deeper than words.

Evidently she found it. Dropping her hands she sat down in the chair
which Kathleen had placed for her. "I believe you," she said solemnly.
"And now I'll tell you the whole truth. I'm not colored, I'm white."

Through the hour that passed in the hot little kitchen Hertha told her
story, Kathleen experiencing every emotion from incredulity to
overmastering indignation. During the recital the narrator herself was
strangely aloof, speaking as though she were an onlooker anxious to
retail correctly each point but indifferent to the