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 monotone that succeeds a fit of weeping, “and ashamed—and afraid.” She blinked her eyes to press out the undue moisture, and looked at Peter as if asking what else she could do about it than to go away from the village.

“Will it be any better away from here?” suggested Peter, doubtfully.

Cissie shook her head.

“I—I suppose not, if—if I go alone.”

“I shouldn't think so,” agreed Peter, somberly. He started to hearten her by saying white women also underwent such trials, if that would be a consolation; but he knew very well that a white woman's hardships were as nothing compared to those of a colored woman who was endowed with any grace whatever.

“And besides, Cissie,” went on Peter, who somehow found himself arguing against the notion of her going, “I hardly see how a decent colored woman gets around at all. Colored boarding-houses are wretched places. I ate and slept in one or two, coming home. Rotten.” The possibility of Cissie finding herself in such a place moved Peter.

The girl nodded submissively to his judgment, and said in a queer voice: “That's why I—I didn't want to travel alone, Peter.”

“No, it's a bad idea—” and then Peter perceived that a queer quality was creeping into the tête-à-tête.

She returned his look unsteadily, but with a curious persistence.