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 theory of a literary culture than toward Mr. Washington's for a purely industrial training.”

Peter broke out laughing.

“For the love of Mike, Cissie, you talk like the instructor in Sociology B! And haven't we met before somewhere? This 'Mister Siner' stuff—”

The girl's face warmed under its faint, greenish powder.

“If I aren't careful with my language, Peter,” she said simply, “I'll be talking just as badly as I did before I went to the seminary. You know I never hear a proper sentence in Hooker's Bend except my own.”

A certain resignation in the girl's soft voice brought Peter a qualm for laughing at her. He laid an impulsive hand on her young shoulder.

“Well, that's true, certainly, but it won't always be like that, Cissie. More of us go off to school every year. I do hope my school here in Hooker's Bend will be of some real value. If I could just show our people how badly we fare here, how ill housed, and unsanitary—”

The girl pressed Peter's fingers with a woman's optimism for a man.

“You'll succeed, Peter, I know you will. Some day the name Siner will mean the same thing to coloured people as Tanner and Dunbar and Braithwaite do. Anyway, I've put my name down for ten dollars to help out.” She returned the pencil. “I'll have