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 that’s where you’re wrong. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. ” “That doesn’t explain sunsets. “Never mind me. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it.
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