Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. 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. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time. I’m glad the old sore is assuaged. “This is not every day. “Will he live?” The doctor shook his head.
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