The yellow woman seemed slightly ill at ease.

“Cissie ain’t so well, Peter.”

“She’s not ill?”

“N-no; but the excitement an’ ever’thing—­” answered Vannie, vaguely.

In the flush of his plans, Peter was keenly disappointed.

“It’s very important, Mrs. Dildine.”

Vannie’s dried yellow face framed the ghost of a smile.

“Ever’thing a young man’s got to say to a gal is ve’y important, Peter.”

It seemed to Peter a poor time for a jest; his face warmed faintly.

“It—­it’s about some of the details of our—­our wedding.”

“If you’ll excuse her to-day, Peter, an’ come after supper—­”

Peter hesitated, and was about to go away when Cissie’s voice came from an inner room, telling her mother to admit him.

The yellow woman glanced at the door on the left side of the hall, crossed over and opened it, stood to one side while Peter entered, and closed it after him, leaving the two alone.

The room into which Peter stepped was dark, after the fashion of negro houses.  Only after a moment’s survey did he see Cissie sitting near a big fireplace made of rough stone.  The girl started to rise as Peter advanced toward her, but he solicitously forbade it and hurried over to her.  When he leaned over her and put his arms about her, his ardor was slightly dampened when she gave him her cheek instead of her lips to kiss.

“Surely, you’re not too ill to be kissed?” he rallied faintly.

“You kissed me.  I thought we had agreed, Peter, you were not to come in the daytime any more.”

“Oh, is that it?” Peter patted her shoulder, cheerfully.  “Don’t worry; I have just removed any reason why I shouldn’t come any time I want to.”

Cissie looked at him, her dark eyes large in the gloom.

“What have you done?”

“Got a preacher to marry us; on my way now for a license.  Dropped in to ask if you ’ll be ready by tomorrow or next day.”

The girl gasped.

“But, Peter—­”

Peter drew a chair beside her in a serious argumentative mood.

“Yes I think we ought to get married at once.  No reason why we shouldn’t get it over with—­Why, what’s the matter?”

“So soon after your mother’s death, Peter?”

“It’s to get away from Hooker’s Bend, Cissie—­to get you away.  I don’t like for you to stay here.  It’s all so—­” he broke off, not caring to open the disagreeable subject.

The girl sat staring down at some fagots smoldering on the hearth.  At that moment they broke into flame and illuminated her sad face.

“You’ll go, won’t you?” asked Peter at last, with a faint uncertainty.

The girl looked up.

“Oh—­I—­I’d be glad to, Peter,”—­she gave a little shiver.  “Ugh! this Niggertown is a—­a terrible place!”

Peter leaned over, took one of her hands, and patted it.