It was the girl. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. 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. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. “I say, Vee.
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