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Peter's prolonged silence aroused certain suspicions in the old negress. She glanced at her son out of the tail of her eyes.

“Cissie Dildine is Tump Pack's gal,” she stated defensively, with the jealousy all mothers feel toward all sons.

A diversion in the shouts of the children up the mean street and a sudden furious barking of dogs drew Peter from the discussion. He looked up, and saw a negro girl of about fourteen coming down the curved street, with long, quick steps and an occasional glance over her shoulder.

​From across the thoroughfare a small chocolate-colored woman, with her wool done in outstanding spikes, thrust her head out at the door and called:

“Whut's de matter, Ofeely?”

The girl lifted a high voice:

“Oh, Miss Nan, it's that constable goin' th'ugh the houses!” The girl veered across the street to the safety of the open door and one of her own sex.

“Good Lawd!” cried the spiked one in disgust, “ever', time a white pusson gits somp'n misplaced—” She moved to one side to allow the girl to enter, and continued staring up the street, with the whites of her eyes accented against her dark face, after the way of angry negroes.