Then he thought of Cissie Dildine who did understand him.  This thought might have been Cissie’s cue to enter the stage of Peter’s mind.  Her oval, creamy face floated between Peter’s eyes and the dog-eared primer.  He thought of Cissie wistfully, and of her lonely fight for good English, good manners, and good taste.  There was a pathos about Cissie.

Peter got up from his chair and looked out at his high window into the early afternoon.  He had been poring over primers for three days, stuffing the most heterogeneous facts.  His head felt thick and slightly feverish.  Through his window he saw the side of another negro cabin, but by looking at an angle eastward he could see a field yellow with corn, a valley, and, beyond, a hill wooded and glowing with the pageantry of autumn.  He thought of Cissie Dildine again, of walking with her among the burning maples and the golden elms.  He thought of the restfulness such a walk with Cissie would bring.

As he mused, Peter’s soul made one of those sharp liberating movements that occasionally visit a human being.  The danger of Tump Pack’s jealousy, the loss of his prestige, the necessity of learning the specific answers to the examination questions, all dropped away from him as trivial and inconsequent.  He turned from the window, put away his books and question-slips, picked up his hat, and moved out briskly through his mother’s room toward the door.

The old woman in the kitchen must have heard him, for she called to him through the partition, and a moment later her bulky form filled the kitchen entrance.  She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at him accusingly.

“Wha you gwine, son?”

“For a walk.”

The old negress tilted her head aslant and looked fixedly at him.

“You’s gwine to dat Cissie Dildine’s, Peter.”

Peter looked at his mother, surprised and rather disconcerted that she had guessed his intentions from his mere footsteps.  The young man changed his plans for his walk, and began a diplomatic denial: 

“No, I’m going to walk by myself.  I’m tired; I’m played out.”

“Tired?” repeated his mother, doubtfully.  “You ain’t done nothin’ but set an’ turn th’ugh books an’ write on a lil piece o’ paper.”

Peter was vaguely amused in his weariness, but thought that he concealed his mirth from his mother.

“That gets tiresome after a while.”

She grunted her skepticism.  As Peter moved for the door she warned him: 

“Peter, you knows ef Tump Pack sees you, he’s gwine to shoot you sho!”

“Oh, no he won’t; that’s Tump’s talk.”

“Talk! talk!  Whut’s matter wid you, Peter?  Dat nigger done git crowned fuh killin’ fo’ men!” She stood staring at him with white eyes.  Then she urged, “Now, look heah, Peter, come along an’ eat yo’ supper.”

“No, I really need a walk.  I won’t walk through Niggertown.  I’ll walk out in the woods.”