Here are their letters. “John’s here. Wild himself if I met him," retorted Jack. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. 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 see nothing surprising in it," rejoined Jonathan. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. At last—I told a story. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. There you will be, in an inner temple. It shall be done as you direct. Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. "Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. ” “But how? It has only been a few days!” “She’s not even here.
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