The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. " "Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. So long. ” He said. I always fall on my feet, you know. . 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. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here.
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