My misery between the time of the murder and the trial was terrible from
many causes: my brother's death; George's position; the knowledge of his
sufferings, and my inability to see or soothe them--and, worst of all,
the firm conviction of his guilt in every one's mind, and Harriet's
ceaseless reproaches. I do not think that I should have lived through
it, but for Dr. Penn. That excellent and revered man's kindness will, I
trust, ever be remembered by me with due gratitude. He went up to town
constantly, at his own expense, and visited my dear George in Newgate,
administering all the consolations of his high office and long
experience, and being the bearer of our messages to each other. From him
also I gleaned all the news of which otherwise I should have been kept
in ignorance; how George's many friends were making every possible
exertion on his behalf, and how an excellent counsel was retained for
him. But far beyond all his great kindness, was to me the simple fact
that he shared my belief in George's innocence; for there were times
when the universal persuasion of his guilt almost shook, not my faith,
but my reason.

There were early prayers in our little church in the morning; too early,
Harriet said, for her to attend much, especially of late, when Dr.
Penn's championship of George Manners had led her to discover more
formalism in his piety, and northern broadness in his accent, than
before. But these quiet services were my daily comfort in those
troublous days; and in the sweet fresh walk home across the park, my
more than father and I hatched endless conspiracies on George's behalf
between the church porch and the rectory gate. Our chief difficulty, I
confess, lay in the question that the world had by this time so terribly
answered--who did it? If George were innocent, who was guilty? My poor