and then she washed it in a solution of soda to freshen it up.
The sight of his bulky old mother working at the spoiled ham and of the negro women in the street moving to and from the infected well filled Peter Siner with its terrible pathos. Although he had seen these surroundings all of his life, he had a queer impression that he was looking upon them for the first time. During his boyhood he had accepted all this without question as the way the world was made. During his college days a criticism had arisen in his mind, but it came slowly, and was tempered by that tenderness every one feels for the spot called home. Now, as he stood looking at it, he wondered how human beings lived there at all. He wondered if Ida May used water from the Niggertown well.
He turned to ask old Caroline, but checked himself with a man's instinctive avoidance of mentioning his intimacies to his mother. At that moment, oddly enough, the old negress brought up the topic herself.
“Ida May wuz 'quirin' 'bout you las' night, Peter.”
A faint tingle filtered through Peter's throat and chest, but he asked casually enough what she had said.
“Didn' say; she wrote.”
Peter looked around, frankly astonished.
“Wrote?”
“Yeah; co'se she wrote.”
“What made her write?” a fantasy of Ida May dumb flickered before the mulatto.
