He could speak no longer, so overcome was he with emotion.  Once more wringing the doctor’s hand, he left the room and entered the chamber of his wife.

“Unhappy man,” exclaimed the doctor, when he was alone, “his is, indeed, a bitter grief, and one not easily obliterated.”

With these words the kind-hearted old gentleman retired to his study, greatly moved at the misfortunes of the family he had been brought in contact with.

The furloughs granted to Alfred and Harry had been renewed on the expiration of the time they had been granted for, but on the representation of Dr. Humphries, had been renewed.  At the time the above conversation took place, they were again nearly expired and Harry determined to appeal to the government once more for a second renewal.  Accordingly he took the cars for Richmond and obtaining an interview with the Secretary of War, he represented the condition of Mrs. Wentworth, and exhibited the certificates of several doctors that she could not survive two months longer.  For himself, he requested a further renewal of his furlough on the ground of his approaching marriage.  With that kindness and consideration which distinguished Gen. Randolph, his applications were granted, and leaves of absence for Alfred and himself for sixty days longer were cordially granted.

With the furloughs, he arrived from Richmond the same evening that the conversation related above took place between the doctor and Alfred, and on the return of his friend from his wife’s chamber, he presented him with his leave.

“You are indeed a friend,” remarked Alfred, “and I can never sufficiently repay the kindness you have shown me.  But before this furlough expires I do not suppose I shall have any wife to be with.”

“Why do you speak so?” inquired Harry.

“She cannot last much longer,” he replied.  “Although unwillingly and with sorrow I am compelled to acknowledge that every day she sinks lower, and to-day her appearance denotes approaching dissolution too plain, even for me to persuade myself that such is not the case.”

“I cannot tell you I hope you are mistaken,” observed his friend, “for I feel that such language can never lighten nor remove your sorrow.  But be assured that I deeply sympathize with you in your affliction.”

“I know it,” he answered.  “Would to heaven all in the South were like you.  It might have been different with my poor wife, and my angel girl might have been alive this day.  However, it was not their duty to succor and protect my family, and I have no right to complain because they lent her no helping hand.  I alone must bear the weight of my affliction, and from the misery it causes me, I devoutly trust none of my comrades may ever know it.  Here your betrothed comes,” he continued, observing Emma at the door.  “I will leave you for the present, as I suppose you wish to speak with her and I desire to be alone for awhile.”