Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. 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. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. John stared palely.
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