With that thought came a sort of mental flare, as if he were about to find the answer to the whole question through the concrete attack made on him by Sam.

It is an extraordinary feeling,—­the sudden, joyful dawn of a new idea.  Peter sat up sharply and leaned forward with a sense of being right on the fringe of a new and a great perception.  Young Arkwright, the old Captain, the whole South, were unfolding themselves in a vast answer, when a movement outside the window caught the negro’s introspective eyes.

A girl was passing; a girl in a yellow dress was passing the Renfrew gate.  Even then Peter would not have wavered in his synthesis had not the girl paused slightly and given a swift side glance at the old manor.  Then the man in the window recognized Cissie Dildine.

A slight shock traveled through Siner’s body at the sight of Cissie’s colorless face and darkened eyes.  He stood up abruptly, with a feeling that he had some urgent thing to say to the young woman.  His sharp movement toppled over the big globe.

The crash caused the girl to stop and look.  For a moment they stood thus, the girl in the chill street, the man in the pleasant window, looking at each other.  Next moment Cissie hurried on up the village street toward the Arkwright house.  No doubt she was on her way to cook the noon meal.

Peter remained standing at the window, with a heavily beating heart.  He watched her until she vanished behind a wing of the shrubbery in the Renfrew yard.

When she had gone, he looked at his books and cards, sat down, and tried to resume his indexing.  But his mind played away from it like a restive horse.  It had been two weeks since he last saw Cissie.  Two weeks....  His nerves vibrated like the strings of a pianoforte.  He had scarcely thought of her during the fortnight; but now, having seen her, he found himself powerless to go on with his work.  He pottered a while longer among the books and cards, but they were meaningless.  They appeared an utter futility.  Why index a lot of nonsense?  Somehow this recalled his flare, his adumbration of some great idea connected with young Arkwright and the old Captain, and the South.

He put his trembling nerves to work, trying to recapture his line of thought.  He sat for ten minutes, following this mental train, then that, losing one, groping for another.  His thoughts were jumpy.  They played about Arkwright, the Captain, Cissie, his mother’s death, Tump Pack in prison, the quarrel between the Persimmon and Jim Pink Staggs.  The whole of Niggertown came rushing down upon him, seizing him in its passion and dustiness and greasiness, putting to flight all his cultivated white-man ideas.

After half an hour’s searching he gave it up.  Before he left the room he stooped, and tried to set up again the globe that the passing of the girl had caused him to throw down; but its pivot was out of plumb, and he had to lean it against the window-seat.