As the two men walked along, it was borne in upon Peter that his mother’s death definitely ended one period of his life.  There was no reason why he should continue his present unsettled existence.  It seemed best to marry Cissie at once and go North.  Further time in this place would not be good for the girl.  Even if he could not lift all Niggertown, he could at least help Cissie.  He had had no idea, when he first planned his work, what a tremendous task he was essaying.  The white village had looked upon the negroes so long as non-moral and non-human that the negroes, with the flexibility of their race, had assimilated that point of view.  The whites tried to regulate the negroes by endless laws.  The negroes had come to accept this, and it seemed that they verily believed that anything not discovered by the constable was permissible.  Mr. Dawson Bobbs was Niggertown’s conscience.  It was best for Peter to take from this atmosphere what was dearest to him, and go at once.

The brown man’s thoughts came trailing back to the old negro parson hobbling at his side.  He looked at the old man, hesitated a moment, then told him what was in his mind.

Parson Ranson’s face wrinkled into a grin.

“You’s gwine to git ma’ied?”

“And I thought I’d have you perform the ceremony.”

This suggestion threw the old negro into excitement.

“Me, Mr. Peter?”

“Yes.  Why not?”

“Why, Mr. Peter, I kain’t jine you an’ Miss Cissie Dildine.”

Peter looked at him, astonished.

“Why can’t you?”

“Whyn’t you git a white preacher?”

“Well,” deliberated Peter, gravely, “it’s a matter of principle with me, Parson Ranson.  I think we colored people ought to be more self-reliant, more self-serving.  We ought to lead our own lives instead of being mere echoes of white thought.”  He made a swift gesture, moved by this passion of his life.  “I don’t mean racial equality.  To my mind racial equality is an empty term.  One might as well ask whether pink and violet are equal.  But what I do insist on is autonomous development.”

The old preacher nodded, staring into the dust.  “Sho! ’tonomous ’velopment.”

Peter saw that his language, if not his thought, was far beyond his old companion’s grasp, and he lacked the patience to simplify himself.

“Why don’t you want to marry us, Parson?”

Parson Ranson lifted his brows and filled his forehead with wrinkles.

“Well, I dunno.  You an’ Miss Cissie acts too much lak white folks fuh a nigger lak me to jine you, Mr. Peter.”

Peter made a sincere effort to be irritated, but he was not.

“That’s no way to feel.  It’s exactly what I was talking about,—­racial self-reliance.  You’ve married hundreds of colored couples.”

“Ya-as, suh,”—­the old fellow scratched his black jaw.—­“I kin yoke up a pair uv ordina’y niggers all right.  Sometimes dey sticks, sometimes dey don’t.”  The old man shook his white, kinky head.  “I’ll bust in an’ try to hitch up you-all.  I—­I dunno whedder de cer’mony will hol’ away up North or not.”