His mother could not understand that the choice young bits of femininity which she paraded before him amused, but did not intrigue, him. So carefully guarding their pale skin against the sun, so daintily lifting billowing flowered skirts, so demure, waiting behind their veils in their rose gardens. He knew too well the temper and petty shrewishness that lurked behind their soft curls. In some cases there would be brains, too, but brains lying dormant. None of them could hold a candle to his mother! He would tell her so, stooping to kiss her ear. The mare pawed restlessly. Someone was whistling just outside the gate. Freeland drew up closer to the low wall. It was a black who had sat down on the stump beside the road. He was pulling on a shoe. The other shoe lay on the ground beside him. Apparently he had been walking along the sandy road in his bare feet. Freeland chuckled. Just like a nigger! Give them a good pair of shoes, and the minute your back’s turned they take them off. Don’t give them shoes, and they say they can’t work. This fellow was undoubtedly turning in at Freelands and didn’t want to appear barefoot. He was standing up now, brushing himself off carefully. A likely looking youngster, well built. Freeland wondered where he belonged. He wasn’t black, rather that warm rich brown that indicated mixed blood. “Bad blood,” his mother always called it. And she would have rapped her son smartly with her cane had he questioned the verdict. Why should he? It would seem that the Atlantic Ocean produced some queer alchemical changes in bloods. In Europe “mixed blood” was, well, just mixed blood. Everybody knew that swarthy complexions in the south of France, in Spain, in Italy, indicated mixed blood. Over here things were different. Certainly there was nothing about slavery to improve stock. He had seen enough to know that. He suspected that his mother had doubts and suspicions which she did not voice. Her feverish anxiety to get him safely married didn’t fool him. He shrugged his shoulders. She need not worry. He knew men who blandly sold off their own flesh and blood. He rubbed elbows with them at the tobacco market, but he never invited them to his table. In the road Frederick stood looking at the gates a moment. They were swung back, so he had no hesitancy about entering; but he had never seen such large gates before. He touched the iron trimmings. Close by a horse neighed. Frederick turned and knew it must be the master sitting there so easily on the big red mare. He jerked off his hat and bowed. “Well, boy, what do you want?” The voice was pleasant. “I’m Captain Auld’s boy, sir. He sent me to work.” Freeland studied the brown face. This young darky was unusual; such speech was seldom heard on the Eastern Shore. He asked another question. “Where are you from, boy?”