Mr. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. It filled her with indefinable fear. 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. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. ’ She sighed. " "Mr.
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