She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. Another picture slid across her vision. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. 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 speak frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from any living person. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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