“What did you say?” he asked vaguely.

The boy was suddenly overcome with the excessive shyness of negro children, and barely managed to whisper: 

“I—­I ast wh-who you wuz a-talkin’ to.”

“Was I talking?”

The little negro nodded, undecided whether to stand his ground or flee.  Peter touched the child’s crisp hair.

“I was talking to myself,” he said, and moved forward again.

The child instantly gained confidence at the slight caress, took a fold of Peter’s trousers in his hand for friendliness, and the two trudged on together.

“Wh-whut you talkin’ to yo’ se’f for?”

Peter glanced down at the little black head that promised to think up a thousand questions.

“I was wondering where to go.”

“Lawsy! is you los’ yo’ way?”

He stroked the little head with a rush of self-pity.

“Yes, I have, son; I’ve completely lost my way.”

The child twisted his head around and peered up alongside Peter’s arm.  Presently he asked: 

“Ain’t you Mr. Peter Siner?”

“Yes.”

“Ain’t you de man whut’s gwine to ma’y Miss Cissie Dildine?”

Peter looked down at his small companion with a certain concern that his marriage was already gossip known to babes.

“I’m Peter Siner,” he repeated.

“Den I knows which way you wants to go,” piped the youngster in sudden helpfulness.  “You wants to go over to Cap’n Renfrew’s place acrost de Big Hill.  He done sont fuh you.  Mr. Wince Washington tol’ me, ef I seed you, to tell you dat Cap’n Renfrew wants to see you.  I dunno whut hit’s about.  I ast Wince, an’ he didn’ know.”

Peter recalled the message Nan Berry had given him some hours before.  Now the same summons had seeped around to him from another direction.

“I—­I’ll show you de way to Cap’n Renfrew’s ef—­ef you’ll come back wid me th’ugh de cedar glade,” proposed the child.  “I—­I ain’t skeered in de cedar glade, b-b-but hit’s so dark I kain’t see my way back home.  I—­I—­”

Peter thanked him and declined his services.  After all, he might as well go to see Captain Renfrew.  He owed the old gentleman some thanks—­and ten dollars.

The only thing of which Peter Siner was aware during his walk over the Big Hill and through the village was his last scene with Cissie.  He went over it again and again, repeating their conversation, inventing new replies, framing new action, questioning more fully into the octoroon’s vague confession and his benumbed acceptance of it.  The moment his mind completed the little drama it started again from the very beginning.

At Captain Renfrew’s gate this mental mummery paused long enough for him to vacillate between walking in or going around and shouting from the back gate.  It is a point of etiquette in Hooker’s Bend that negroes shall enter a white house from the back stoop.  Peter had no desire to transgress this custom.  On the other hand, if Captain Renfrew was receiving him as a fellow of Harvard, the back door, in its way, would prove equally embarrassing.