“I don’t know. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. ” He paused, with his eyes studying her gravely. Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered. 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. "It's Mrs. To make Ruth pay for the whole shot! To wash away his sin by crucifying her: that was precisely what he had set about.
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