“Well?” she said. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. 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. Very well. So was I, in fact. The doctor here says he can get you aboard to-morrow night. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in.
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