3. The high moral character born by the
prisoner up to that time.

The points against him were:

1. The cut on his wrist, and marks of blood
on his clothes.

2. Gibbs's pencil, found upon him.

3. The absence of testimony corroborative
of his own account of his doings during the
thirty minutes that intervened between Gibbs's
leaving the Dunstan Arms (where he had gone
straight from home) and his (George's) own
return to his father's.

4. The bitter animosity he was known to
cherish against the deceased, and certain words
he had been heard to utter respecting him,
indicating a desire for his life.

By the evidence of the landlord of the
Dunstan Arms, it appeared that Gibbs had left his
place to proceed to the Plashetts, at a few
minutes before half-past eight o'clock. Now, it
would take some four or five minutes' moderate
walking for one leaving the public-house, to reach
the spot where Gibbs's body was found; thus
reducing the period for the murder to be
committed in (if committed by George at that time)
to three or four and twenty minutes, if he ran
home at his full speed, or to nineteen or twenty
minutes, if he walked at an average pace.

The demeanour of the prisoner before the
magistrates, was stern, and even defiant; but
he betrayed no emotion. He was fully
committed for trial at the approaching assizes.

Meanwhile, opinion respecting him was greatly
divided in Cumner. He had never been a popular
man, and his extreme reserve during the
last three years had alienated many who, at
the period of his great trouble, had been
disposed to sympathise with him. And, although
he had always held a high place in public
estimation, the impression that he was a man of
unusually fierce passions, and implacable
resentment, had gained ground of late. In short,
not a few of those who knew him best, believed
that, worked up to savage fury by the sufferings
of the woman he had once so fondly loved, and by
long brooding over his own wrongs, he had
revenged both himself and her by taking the life
of his enemy. He might, it was thought, have
easily slipped out of his father's house in the
dead of night, have waylaid and murdered Gibbs
as he was returning from the Plashetts, and
have secreted or destroyed the property in order
to throw suspicion off the right scent.

His trial will long be remembered in those
parts, as well from the intense excitement it
occasioned in that particular locality, as from
the strong interest manifested about it throughout
the kingdom. The most eminent counsel
were engaged on his behalf; and Mr. Malcolmson,
who never could believe in his guilt, spared
neither pains nor expense to aid his cause. He
was perfectly calm when he stood in the dock,
the one object on which countless eyes were
eagerly riveted; but the change that had taken
place in his outward seeming, struck even the
most indifferent beholder with compassion, and
possibly did more to impress the jury in his favour,
than even the eloquence of his counsel, wonderful
as that proved. For, his sufferings must have
been intense. He had grown years older, during
the last few weeks. His hair had thinned; his
clothes hung upon his attenuated frame. He,
once so ruddy and vigorous, stood there wan,
haggard, drooping. Even the expression of his
countenance had altered; it was stern no more.

A sound like one vast sobbing sigh went
through the crowded court when the verdict,
Not Guilty, was heard; but no applause, no
public mark of joy or gratulation. And silently,
with downcast eyes, like a doomed man, George
Eade returned with one parent to the home
where the other sat praying for his release.

It had been expected that, if acquitted, he
would leave Cumner, and seek his fortunes
elsewhere. But it was consistent with the
character of the man, to brave the opinion of
his fellows, and he did so in this instance. On
the first Sunday, to the surprise of all, he made
his appearance in church, sitting apart from the
rest of the congregation, as though unwilling to
obtrude himself upon them; from that time
his attendance was invariable. Nor was this
the only change observable in his conduct. His
moroseness had passed away. He had become
subdued, patient, manifesting a touching gratitude
to those who treated him with common
civility, as though he felt himself unworthy of
their notice; unremitting in his devotion to his
parents; working hard all the day; sometimes
puzzling over a book at night; never alluding
to the past—never forgetting it; melancholy
—more melancholy than ever; but no longer
bitter nor resentful. Such had George Eade
become; and when men saw him at a distance,
they followed him with their eyes, and asked
one another in a whisper, "Did he do it?"

He and Susan never met. She long lay
dangerously ill at her father's house, whither she
had removed after the tragical event. And the
old farmer was fitly punished for his sordid
coveting of Gibbs's wealth, when it was found
that the latter had settled only fifty pounds a
year upon his wife, to be forfeited altogether if
she should make a second marriage.

It was about a twelvemonth after these events
that, one bright moonlight night, as Mr. Murray
was sitting in his library alone, his servant
entered to inform him that a stranger, who gave
his name as Luke Williams, desired to speak
with him. It was past ten o'clock, and the
clergyman's hours were early and regular.

"Tell him to call to-morrow morning," said
he; "this is not a fit hour for business."

"I did tell him so, sir," the man replied;
"but he declared his was a business that would
not wait an hour."

"Is he a beggar?"

"He didn't beg, sir; but he looks shocking,
quite shocking——"

"Show him in."

The man entered; truly a shocking object.
Pale, hollow-eyed, cadaverous, with a racking
cough that caused him to pant and gasp for
breath, he looked like one in the last stage of
consumption. He gazed at Mr. Murray with a