Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. "My father!" she whispered. She made a step forward. Ennison paused by the little gate. ‘I knew it. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. . God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. 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. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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