“It’ll be all right anywhere, Parson,” said Peter, seriously.  “Your name on the marriage-certificate will—­can you write?”

“N-no, suh.”

After a brief hesitation Peter repeated determinedly: 

“It’ll be all right.  And, by the way, of course, this will be a very quiet wedding.”

“Yas-suh.”  The old man bobbed importantly.

“I wouldn’t mention it to any one.”

“No, suh; no, suh.  I don’ blame you a-tall, Mr. Peter, wid dat Tump Pack gallivantin’ roun’ wid a forty-fo’.  Hit would keep ‘mos’ anybody’s weddin’ ve’y quiet onless he wuz lookin’ fuh a short cut to heab’n.”

As the two negroes passed the Berry cabin, Nan Berry thrust out her spiked head and called to Peter Captain Renfrew wanted to see him.

Peter paused, with quickened interest in this strange old man who had come to his mother’s death-bed with a doctor.  Peter asked Nan what the Captain wanted.

Nan did not know.  Wince Washington had told Nan that the Captain wanted to see Peter.  Bluegum Frakes had told Wince; Jerry Dillihay had told Bluegum; but any further meanderings of the message, when it started, or what its details might be, Nan could not state.

It was a typical message from a resident of the white town to a denizen of Niggertown.  Such messages are delivered to any black man for any other black man, not only in the village, but anywhere in the outlying country.  It may be passed on by a dozen or a score of mouths before it reaches its objective.  It may be a day or a week in transit, but eventually it will be delivered verbatim.  This queer system of communication is a relic of slavery, when the master would send out word for some special negro out of two or three hundred slaves to report at the big house.

However, as Peter approached the Dildine cabin, thoughts of his approaching marriage drove from his mind even old Captain Renfrew’s message.  His heart beat fast from having made his first formal step toward wedlock.  The thought of having Cissie all to himself, swept his nerves in a gust.

He opened the gate, and ran up between the dusty lines of dwarf box, eager to tell her what he had done.  He thumped on the cracked, unpainted door, and impatiently waited the skirmish of observation along the edge of the window-blinds.  This was unduly drawn out.  Presently he heard women’s voices whispering to each other inside.  They seemed urgent, almost angry voices.  Now and then he caught a sentence: 

“What difference will it make?” “I couldn’t.”  “Why couldn’t you?” “Because—­” “That’s because you’ve been to Nashville.”  “Oh, well—­” A chair was moved over a bare floor.  A little later footsteps came to the entrance, the door opened, and Cissie’s withered yellow mother stood before him.

Vannie offered her hand and inquired after Peter’s health with a stopped voice that instantly recalled his mother’s death.  After the necessary moment of talk, the mulatto inquired for Cissie.