It was the girl. 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. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. "What have you seen?" inquired Lady Trafford. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. By and by she heard the screen door. . Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. “Thank you—and good-bye. "There is a man in this room who seeks my life.
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