Peter knew
she would begin a long bill of complaints,--how badly she was treated,
how she had sacrificed herself, her comfort, how she had washed and
scrubbed. She would surely charge Cissie with being a thief and a drab,
and all the announcements of engagements that Peter could make would
never induce the old woman to soften her abuse. Indeed, they would make
her worse.
So Peter walked on slowly, smelling the haze of dust that hung in the
blackness. Out on the Big Hill, in the glade, Peter caught an occasional
glimmer of light where crap-shooters and boot-leggers were beginning
their nightly carousal.
These evidences of illicit trades brought Peter a thrill of disgust. In
a sort of clear moment he saw that he could not keep Cissie in such a
sty as this. He could not rear in such a place as this any children that
might come to him and Cissie. His thoughts drifted back to his mother,
and his dread of her tongue.
The Siner cabin was dark and tightly shut when Peter let himself in at
the gate and walked to the door. He stood a moment listening, and then
gently pressed open the shutter.
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