and justice when I hear the verdict: Not Guilty. On the contrary, I am deh'ghted. Even when reason tells me that the jurymen have made a mistake, even then I rejoice. I put it to you, gentlemen; if judges and jurymen put more faith in men — than in clues, speeches, and articles put in evidence, is not this faith in men a higher thing than all practical considerations? Such faith is accessible only to the few — to those who understand and feel Christ.”
“It's a good thought,” I said.
“And not a new thought. I remember some time long ago hearing a legend on this theme. And a very fine legend,” said the gardener, smiling. “I was told it by my late grandmother, my father's mother, a wonderful old woman! She told it in Swedish: in Russian it's less effective, less classical, so to speak.”
We asked him to tell us the story, and forget the rudeness of the Russian language. Flattered and content, he lighted a cigarette, looked angrily at the workmen, and began: —
“To a little town, somewhere, there came an old, solitary, ugly man, by name Thompson — or Wilson — the name doesn't count. His profession was a good one: he cured the sick. He was morose and uncommunicative, and spoke only when his work required it. He paid no visits, confined his intercourse to silent bows, and lived as modestly as a hermit. The eicplanation was that he was a scholar; and in those
