She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. Even if she has to work two jobs to do it. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. ’ ‘Nonsense. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. . 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. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. And then suddenly—a relief. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. Sanguine they were not. "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. ” Annabel rose to her feet.
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