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. “I always get off here and lean over that rail for a bit. ‘It is not your affair. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried. I’d ruin the things if I so much as touched one. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. It was the gratification of an immense necessity.
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