“I am sorry that I have murdered you. ToC On the following night—namely Monday,—the family assembled together, for the first time since the fatal event, in the chamber to which Thames had been introduced on his arrival at Dollis Hill. "We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred," he began,—"for I must use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar name,—we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere. Anna made things for her. I presume that I may not kiss you in the street?” “Certainly not, sir,” she replied, laughing. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. 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. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck.
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