“How old are you?” “Sixteen. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. 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. . “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. It tore her apart. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. “I would not have you go for anything,” she answered. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. They fell into step again.
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