Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed. 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. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. "Mr. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate.
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