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“Why, son!” she ejaculated, “didn' you bow yo' haid while yo' mammy ast de grace?”

Peter was a little confused at his remissness. Then he leaned a little forward to explain the sudden glamour which for a moment had transfigured the interior of their kitchen. But even as he started to speak, he realized that what he meant to say would only confuse his mother; therefore he cast about mentally for some other explanation of his behavior, but found nothing at hand.

“I hope you ain't forgot yo' 'ligion up at de 'versity, son.”

“Oh, no, no, indeed, Mother, but just at that moment, just as you bowed your head, you know, it struck me that—that there is something noble in our race.” That was the best he could put it to her.

“Noble—”

“Yes. You know,” he went on a little quickly, “sometimes I—I've thought my father must have been a noble man.”

The old negress became very still. She was not looking quite at her son, or yet precisely away from him.

“Uh—uh noble nigger,”—she gave her abdominal chuckle. “Why—yeah, I reckon yo' father wuz putty noble as—as niggers go.” She sat looking at her son, oddly, with a faint amusement in her gross black face, ​when a careful voice, a very careful voice, sounded in the outer room, gliding up politely on the syllables: