Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. 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. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. Not enough of them to make a difference.
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