“Why can't you?”
“Whyn't you git a white preacher?”
“Well,” deliberated Peter, gravely, “it's a matter of principle with me, Parson Ranson. I think we colored people ought to be more self-reliant, more self-serving. We ought to lead our own lives instead of being mere echoes of white thought.” He made a swift gesture, moved by this passion of his life. “I don't mean racial equality. To my mind racial equality is an empty term. One might as well ask whether pink and violet are equal. But what I do insist on is autonomous development.”
The old preacher nodded, staring into the dust. “Sho! 'tonomous 'velopment.”
Peter saw that his language, if not his thought, was far beyond his old companion's grasp, and he lacked the patience to simplify himself.
“Why don't you want to marry us, Parson?”
Parson Ranson lifted his brows and filled his forehead with wrinkles.
“Well, I dunno. You an' Miss Cissie acts too much lak white folks fuh a nigger lak me to jine you, Mr. Peter.”
Peter made a sincere effort to be irritated, but he was not.
“That's no way to feel. It's exactly what I was talking about,—racial self-reliance. You've married hundreds of colored couples.”
“Ya-as, suh,”—the old fellow scratched his black
