up straight. Cissie also sat up. She stopped crying, and sat looking into the fire.
“You mean—morals?” said Peter in a low tone.
Cissie barely nodded, her wet eyes fixed on the fire.
“I see. I was stupid.”
The girl sat a moment, drawing deep breaths. At last she rose slowly.
“Well—I'm glad it's over. I'm glad you know.” She stood looking at him almost composedly except for her breathing and her tear-stained face. “You see, Peter, if you had been like Tump Pack or Wince or any of the boys around here, it—it wouldn't have made much difference; but—but you went off and—and learned to think and feel like a white man. You— you changed your code, Peter.” She gave a little shaken sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “I—I don't think th-that's very fair, Peter, to—to go away an'—an' change an' come back an' judge us with yo' n-new code.” Cissie's precise English broke down.
Just then Peter's logic caught at a point.
“If you didn't know anything about my code, how do you know what I feel now?” he asked.
She looked at him with a queer expression.
“I found out when you kissed me under the arbor. It was too late then.”
She stood erect, with dismissal very clearly written in her attitude. Peter walked out of the room.
