. . “You shall,” she said. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. Take it, I tell you. " This simple admission disarmed McClintock. 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 no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. It was as if he could smell it on her. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes.
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