“It seems that he was fond of her. I never dreamed of such a thing, and when I put old Morrison out of the office, and came back, he called me a liar, and struck me in the face.” He did not lift his eyes to the level of Marcia's, who in her gray dress stood there like a gray shadow, and did not stir or speak.
“And you never had made up to the girl at all?”
“No.”
“Kissed her, I suppose, now and then?” suggested the Squire.
Bartley did not reply.
“Flattered her up, and told how much you thought of her, occasionally?”
“I don't see what that has to do with it,” said Bartley with a sulky defiance.
“No, I suppose it's what you'd do with most any pretty girl,” returned the Squire. He was silent awhile. “And so you knocked Henry down. What happened then?”
“I tried to bring him to, and then I went for the doctor. He revived, and we got him home to his mother's. The doctor says he will get well; but he advised me to come and see you.”
“Any witnesses of the assault?”