When at home in these latter days, old Butterwood had been content to
have his garden cultivated, for he could still hobble about and look at
that, and had left his fields to take care of themselves, until he should
be well enough to be his own farmer, as he had always been. But old age,
coming to the aid of his other complaints, had carried him off a few
months before this story begins.
The only person now living at Cobhurst was a colored man named Mike,
who inhabited the gardener's house and held the office of care-taker of
the place.
Whenever Mike now came to town with his old wagon and horse, or when he
was met on the road, he found people more and more inquisitive about the
new owner of Cobhurst. Mike was not altogether a negro, having a good
deal of Irish blood in his veins, and this conjunction of the two races
in his individuality had had the effect upon his speech of destroying all
tendency to negro dialect or Irish brogue, so that, in fact, he spoke
like ordinary white people of his grade in life. The effect upon his
character, however, had been somewhat different, and while the vivacity
of the African and that of the Hibernian, in a degree, had neutralized
each other, making him at times almost as phlegmatic as the traditional
Dutchman, he would sometimes exhibit the peculiarities of a Sambo, and
sometimes those of a Paddy.
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