"Who, then?" demanded Jack. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. . 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. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. . ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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