On the arrival of dispatches giving an account of this victory, to use a vulgar phrase, New Orleans “ran wild.”  The excitement and exultation of the people were beyond description, and during the same night that the news was received, one scene of gayety was observed in the city.  There was one heart, however, that did not share the joy and merriment so universal among the people.  In the privacy of her dwelling, with her two children near by, Mrs. Wentworth spent a night of prayer and anxiety, and next morning rose from her bed with the same feeling of anxiety to know whether her husband had escaped unhurt.  At about ten o’clock in the morning, a knock was heard at the door, and soon after Mr. Awtry entered.

“How are you this morning, Mrs. Wentworth?” he said, taking her little daughter in his arms and kissing her; “so we have gained a great victory in Virginia.”

“Yes,” she replied; “but I do feel so anxious to know if my husband is safe.”

“Do not think for a moment otherwise,” he answered; “why a soldier’s wife should not show half as much solicitude as you do.”

“I am, indeed, very desirous of knowing his fate and I am sure the fact of being a soldier’s wife does not prevent my feeling a desire to ascertain if he is unhurt, or if he is”—­she paused at the thought which seemed so horrid in her imagination, and lowering her face in her hands, burst into tears.

“Mother, what are you crying for?” asked her little daughter, who was sitting on Mr. Awtry’s knees.

“My dear madam,” said Mr. Awtry, “why do you give way to tears?  If you desire,” he continued, “I will telegraph to Virginia and learn if your husband is safe.”

“Thank you—­thank you!” she answered eagerly; “I shall feel deeply obligated if you will.”

“I shall go down to the telegraph office at once,” he said, rising from his seat and placing the child down; “and now, my little darling,” he continued, speaking to the child, “you must tell your ma not to cry so much.”  With these words he shook Mrs. Wentworth’s hand and left the house.

The day passed wearily for Mrs. Wentworth; every hour she would open one of the windows leading to the street and look out, as if expecting to see Mr. Awtry with a telegraphic dispatch in his hand, and each disappointment she met with on these visits would only add to her intense anxiety.  The shades of evening had overshadowed the earth, and Mrs. Wentworth sat at the window of her dwelling waiting the arrival of the news, which would either remove her fears or plunge her in sorrow.  Long hours passed, and she had almost despaired of Mr. Awtry’s coming that evening, when he walked up the street, and in a few minutes was in the house.

“What news?” gasped Mrs. Wentworth, starting from her seat and meeting him at the door of the apartment.

“Read it, my dear madam.  I shall leave that pleasure to you,” he replied, handing her a telegraphic dispatch he held in his hand.