"Bless m' well, squire! What! Borlase dead—killed! Good hold Borlase! 'ow fond we were of 'im! Dead!"
There was a curious working of the gardener's features and he hastily rubbed the sleeve of his rough shirt across his eyes.
"You must excuse me, squire—to blubber 'ere like a babby—but then you knaw 'ow I brought un, nigh ten year ago, from St. Just—a puppy 'e was then, and I loved un—ay—like—like—like a father. 'Ow 'e used to bark—just like the roar of a lion—ah was—and 'ow sensible 'e was too when 'e would come nigh me at work on the flower beds; 'e'd wag 'is tail and look on like a gentleman, as if saying, 'thas all right, my man,' and yet 'e'd ne'er put foot on a posy or stamp on my work. Dead! But bless'ee, squire, you can't suspect Ande. Why, I knawed Ande when 'e was only a hinfant, and I knawed him from then up, and a brighter, better, honester lad ne'er breathed. Soul of 'onour, 'e ez, sir! Ande! Why 'e wouldn't 'urt nothing, sir."
"I agree with you, Ned," said the parson. "Ande has too kind a heart to hurt any of God's creatures. His character is above suspicion in the matter."
"'Zactly so, so 'e ez," affirmed Ned.
"The principles and character of his father and grandfather were not above reproach. He's a chip of the old block," growled the squire.
"But, I am afraid the commonwealth is against you in your judgment of the lad. You know the old adage, 'a man's innocent until proved guilty,' squire," rejoined the parson.
"Aye, but in this case it's the Irish verdict, 'guilty, but not proven.' Ned, fix up the berry bushes and trim the shrubbery to-day. In the meantime keep an ear open, and report to me any news you may hear of last night's outrage."
The gardener touched his cap and returned to his labour, and squire and parson, still conversing, sauntered away through the grounds.
"A man shouldn't allow his feelings to run away with his judgment," said the latter, warmly championing the cause of his favourite.