gentle woman of this world, and when disappointed in his aspirations, when the cold frowns of a callous world drive him from the haunts of men, who so soothing as a Wife?  She will smoothen the wrinkles on his forehead, and by words of loving cheer inspire him with courage and bid him brave the censure and mocking of the world, and strive again to reach the summit of his desires.  A Wife!  There is no word that appeals with greater force to the heart than this.  From the moment the lover becomes the Wife, her life becomes a fountain of happiness to a husband, which gushes out and runs down the path of Time, never to cease, until the power of the Invisible demands and the Angel of Death removes her from his side.  Age meets them hand in hand, and still imbued with a reciprocity of affection, her children are taught a lesson from herself which makes the Wife, from generation to generation, the same medium of admiration for the world, the same object of our adoration and homage.  We write these lines with homage and respect for the Wife, and with an undefined emotion in our hearts, which tells us they are correct, and that the value of a Wife is all the imagination can depict and the pen indite.

And to lose one!  Oh! what sorrow it must awaken—­how the fountains of grief must fill to overflowing, when the companion of your life is torn from you by the hand of Death!  No wonder, then, that the heart of Alfred Wentworth bled with woe, and he became a changed man.  What cared he longer for this world?  Almost nothing!  But one thing urged him to rally his energies and meet the blow with fortitude whenever it should come.  It was the knowledge that his little boy would need a father’s care.  This made him not quite oblivious to this world, for though his life would be in the front, so soon as he returned to the battle-field, there were chances for his escaping death, and his desire was to live, so that the child might grow up and remind him of his wife.  No, not remind!  As fresh as the hour when love first entered his heart for her—­as plain as the day he led her to the altar and registered his vows to Heaven—­and as pure as herself, would his memory ever be for her.  Time can soothe woes, obliterate the scars left by grief, but the memory of a dead wife can never be extinguished in the mind of a husband, even though her place in his heart may be filled by another.  She must ever be recollected by him, and each hour he thinks of her, so will her virtues shine brighter and more transparent, and her faults, if any, become forgotten, as they were forgiven.  But we weary the reader with these digressions, and will proceed to close our narrative.

Three additional weeks passed, and still Mrs. Wentworth remained insane, but her insanity being of a gentle character, Dr. Humphries would not permit her to be sent to the lunatic asylum, as her husband advised.  It is true, he desired it more for the purpose of avoiding being the recipient of any further favors, than because he thought it necessary.  This morbid sensitiveness shrank from being obligated to a comparative stranger like the doctor, and it was not until the old gentleman absolutely refused to permit Mrs. Wentworth to leave the house, that he yielded his assent to her remaining.