" "One word before I go," urged Blueskin. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. The door closed softly upon her. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that.
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