Swiftly she sped along the streets.  Many passers by stopped and looked with surprise at her rapid walking.  They knew not the sorrows of the Soldier’s Wife.  Many there were who gazed upon her threadbare habiliments and haggard features, who could never surmise that the light of joy had ceased to burn in her heart.  Their life had been one long dream of happiness, unmarred, save by those light clouds of sorrow, which at times flit across the horrizon of man’s career, but which are swiftly driven away by the sunshine of happiness, or dissipated by the gentle winds of life’s joyous summer.

And the crowds passed her in silence and surprise, but she heeded them not.  Her thoughts were of the angel daughter in the negro’s lonely cabin.  To her she carried life; at least she thought so, but the inevitable will of Death had been declared.  Ella was dying.

The eye of God was still turned from the widow and her children.  He saw them not, but his Angels, whose duty it is to chronicle all that occurs on earth, looked down on that bright autumn day, and a tear fell from the etherial realms in which they dwelt, and rested upon the Soldier’s Wife.

It was the tear of pity, not of relief.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH

THE DYING CHILD.

After the departure of Mrs. Wentworth, the little girl lie still upon the bed, while her little brother played about the room.  Nearly one hour elapsed in silence.  The breath of the child became shorter and harder drawn.  Her little face became more pinched, while the cold drops of perspiration rose larger on her forehead.  Instinct told her she was dying, but young as she was, death created no terrors in her heart.  She lay there, anxious for her mother’s return, that she may die in the arms of the one who gave her birth.  Death seemed to her but the advent to Heaven, that home in which we are told all is goodness and happiness.  She thought herself an Angel dwelling with the Maker, and in her childish trustfulness and faith almost wished herself already numbered among the Cherubs of Paradise.

The old negro returned before Mrs. Wentworth, and walking to the bedside of the child, looked at her, and recognized the impress of approaching death.  She felt alarmed, but could not remedy the evil.  Looking at the child sorrowfully for a moment, she turned away.

“Poh chile,” she muttered sadly, “she is dyin’ sho’ and her mammy is gone out.  Da’s a ting to take place in my room.”

“Granny,” said Ella feebly.

“What do you want my darlin’ chile,” answered the old woman, returning to the bedside.

“See if mother is coming,” she requested.

The old woman walked to the door, and looked down the street.  There was no sign of Mrs. Wentworth.

“No missy,” she said to Ella, “your mammy is not coming yet.”

“Oh, I do wish she would come,” remarked the little girl.