“It is true. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. ” She turned a firelit face to her husband. 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. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. "Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. But, since I've seen the friend and companion of my childhood, Thames Darrell, I've no heart for it.
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