stood like a sentinel in the corner of the wood yard they sat, where a high board fence separated them from the back street.

The bishop’s place was well planted, and this corner had been the quarters of the house servants in slave times. It was one of Frale’s duties to pile here, for winter use, the firewood which he cut in short lengths for the kitchen fire, and long lengths for the open fireplaces.

He hated the hampered village life, and round of small duties — the weeding in the garden, cleaning of piazzas and windows, and the sweeping of the paths. The woodcutting was not so bad, but the rest he held in contempt as women’s work. He longed to throw his gun in the hollow of his arm and tramp off over his own mountains. At night he often wept, for homesickness,