"They make you feel naked," went on Cissie in the monotone that succeeds a fit of weeping, "and ashamed--and afraid." She blinked her eyes to press out the undue moisture, and looked at Peter as if asking what else she could do about it than to go away from the village. "Will it be any better away from here?" suggested Peter, doubtfully. Cissie shook her head. "I--I suppose not, if--if I go alone." "I shouldn't think so," agreed Peter, somberly. He started to hearten her by saying white women also underwent such trials, if that would be a consolation; but he knew very well that a white woman's hardships were as nothing compared to those of a colored woman who was endowed with any grace whatever. "And besides, Cissie," went on Peter, who somehow found himself arguing against the notion of her going, "I hardly see how a decent colored woman gets around at all. Colored boarding-houses are wretched places. I ate and slept in one or two, coming home. Rotten." The possibility of Cissie finding herself in such a place moved Peter. The girl nodded submissively to his judgment, and said in a queer voice: "That's why I--I didn't want to travel alone, Peter." "No, it's a bad idea--" and then Peter perceived that a queer quality was creeping into the tête-à-tête. She returned his look unsteadily, but with a curious persistence. [Illustration: "You-you mean you want m-me--to go with you, Cissie?" he stammered] "I--I d-don't want to travel a-alone, Peter," she gasped. Her look, her voice suddenly brought home to the an the amazing connotation of her words. He stared at her, felt his face grow warm with a sharp, peculiar embarrassment. He hardly knew what to say or do before her intent and piteous eyes. "You--you mean you want m-me--to go with you, Cissie?" he stammered. The girl suddenly began trembling, now that her last reserve of indirection had been torn away. "Listen, Peter," she began breathlessly. "I'm not the sort of woman you think. If I hadn't accused myself, we'd be married now. I--I wanted you more than anything in the world, Peter, but I did tell you. Surely, surely, Peter, that shows I am a good woman--th-the real I. Dear, dear Peter, there is a difference between a woman and her acts. Peter, you're the first man in all my life, in a-all my life who ever came to me k- kindly and gently; so I had to l-love you and t-tell you, Peter." The girl's wavering voice broke down completely; her face twisted with grief. She groped for her chair, sat down, buried her face in her arms on the table, and broke into a chattering outbreak of sobs that sounded like some sort of laughter.