This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Not many years ago, two men, employed on this duty, quarrelled during the night, and in the morning their bodies were found stretched upon the pavement of the yard beneath. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. "What's that?" "The old human cry of something for nothing; but with you it is in reverse. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. . His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. She put her mouth on him. 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.
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