appeared, nothing was found that had been Mrs. Bird's property. Still, the general feeling was so strong against them, that they were committed for trial, which took place the following week.
Death never excites such sympathy as it does when it assumes the shape of murder. In a few days the little garden was stripped of every plant, rosemary, rue, currant, and gooseberry bush, potato and cabbage,—all that their possessors might have some relic of "the horrible murder;" and every one planted the spoil in the most conspicuous part of their own garden. The poor old woman had been universally liked; she had kept that shop forty years; nothing had induced her to leave it, though the original motive for settling there had long passed away. The "Great House," as it was wont to be called, where she had lived servant, and which had once been scarcely twice a stone’s throw from her home, had since been pulled down. Mrs. Bird had for many years been the sole chronicler of the glories of "the old family;" and her former connexion with it gave her still something of consequence in the eyes of her neighbours. The most scrupulous honesty, a cheerful temper, and a great love for children (a singularly popular quality), a regular attendance at church (on fine Sundays in the bright red shawl, on wet ones in a less bright red cloak), and a naturally good understanding, made her beloved, and her advice often both asked and taken. Many complained of the
