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CHAPTER XI. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. 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. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again.
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