“Poh lady!” ejaculated the old woman.  “Whar is your husband.”

“My husband?” she replied.  “Ah! where is he?  Oh, God!” she continued wildly.  “Where is he now while his child lies dead through destitution, and his wife feels the brand of the thief imprinted upon her forehead?  Why is he not here to succor the infant boy who yet remains, and who may soon follow his sister?  Oh, God!  Oh, God! that he should be far away, and I be here gazing on the dead body of my child—­dead through my neglect to procure her proper medical attendance; dead through the destitution of her mother.”

“Nebber mind, missis,” observed the old negro soothingly, “De chile is gone to heaben, whar it wont suffer any more.”

“Peace!” exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth passionately.  “Do not talk to me of Heaven.  What has God done to aid me in my misery?  Has he not suffered me to feel the pangs of hunger, to see my children deprived of bread, to permit me to stain my whole existence with a crime?  The child is gone to Heaven.  Aye! there her sinlessness and innocence might give her a welcome, and she may be happy, but the blank left in my heart, the darkness of my mind, the cheerless and unpropitious future that unveils itself before my aching eyes, can never be obliterated until I am laid in the grave beside her, and my spirit has winged its flight to the home where she now dwells.”

She spoke slowly and earnestly, but her words were of despair not of grief.  Motioning to the old woman that she desired no further conversation, Mrs. Wentworth again fixed her gaze upon the dead features of her child.  On them she looked, until the tablet of her memory contained but one impress, that of her daughter’s face.  All records of past suffering, all anxiety for the present, all prayer for the future, were driven away, and solitary and alone the image of the dead child filled their place, and in that lone thought was concentrated all that had transpired in her life for months past.  It was the last remaining bulwark to her tottering mind, and though it still held reason dominant, the foundation of sanity had been shaken to such an extent that the slightest touch and the fabric would fall from its throne and crumble to dust at the feet of madness.  But this was unknown to God.  He who knoweth all things still kept his eyes away from the mother and her children.

“Dead! dead!” said, Mrs. Wentworth, swaying her body to and fro.  “My angel child dead!  Oh, God!"’ she continued, passing her hand across her brow.  “That I should live to see this day, that this hour of bereavement should ever be known to me.  Oh! that this should be the result of my sufferings, that this should be the only reward of my toils and prayers.”