A bird was perched dressing his
feathers on the low white headstone that bears the inscription of
her name and age. I did not go near enough to disturb the little
creature. He looked innocent and pretty on the grave, as Mary
herself was in her lifetime. When he flew away I went and sat for
a little by the headstone, and read the mournful lines on it. Oh,
my love! my love! what harm or wrong had you ever done in this
world, that you should die at eighteen by a blow from a
drunkard's hand?
June 19th. The trial. My experience of what happened at it is
limited, like my experience of the examination at the
police-office, to the time occupied in giving my own evidence.
They made me say much more than I said before the magistrate.
Between examination and cross-examination, I had to go into
almost all the particulars about poor Mary and her funeral that I
have written i n this journal; the jury listening to every word I
spoke with the most anxious attention. At the end, the judge said
a few words to me approving of my conduct, and then there was a
clapping of hands among the people in court. I was so agitated
and excited that I trembled all over when they let me go out into
the air again.
I looked at the prisoner both when I entered the witness-box and
when I left it.
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