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 thread of her discourse. She sat silent for a moment with the air of one screwing up her courage.

“It's this,” she said in an uncertain voice: “sometimes we—we—girls—here in Niggertown copy the wrong thing first.”

Peter looked blankly at her.

“The wrong thing first, Cissie?”

“Oh, yes; we—we begin on clothes and—and hair and—and that isn't the real matter.”

“Why, no-o-o, that isn't the real matter,” said Peter puzzled.

Cissie looked at his face and became hopeless.

“Oh, don't you understand! Lots of us—lots of us make that mistake! I—I did; so—so, Peter, I can't go with you!” She flung out the last phrase, and suddenly collapsed on the arm of her chair, sobbing.

Peter was amazed. He got up, sat on the arm of his own chair next to hers and put his arms about her, bending over her, mothering her. Her distress was so great that he said as earnestly as his ignorance permitted:

“Yes, Cissie, I understand now.” But his tone belied his words, and the girl shook her head. “Yes, I do, Cissie,” he repeated emptily. But she only shook her head as she leaned over him, and her tears slowly formed and trickled down on his hand. Then all at once old Caroline's accusation against Cissie flashed on Peter's mind. She had stolen that dinner in the turkey roaster, after all. It so startled him that he sat