“I can’t, indeed, mother.”  And a slight expression of loathing passed over the child’s face.

“Can’t you think of something you could eat?” urged the mother.

“I don’t want any thing.  The orange tasted good, and that is enough for to-night,” Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.

Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate a small portion of bread and molasses.  But this food touched not her palate with any pleasurable sensation.  She ate, only because she knew that, unless, she took food, she would not have strength to perform her duties to her children.  For a long series of years, her system had been accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the evening meal.  A cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to her.  It braced her system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after the unremitting toils of the day.  But, for some time past, she had felt called upon, for the sake of her children, to deny herself this luxury—­no, comfort—­no, this, to her, one of the necessaries of life.  The consequence was that her appetite lost its tone.  No food tasted pleasantly to her; and the labors of the evening were performed under depression of spirits and nervous relaxation of body.

This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water, in which a little milk had been poured.  As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon the face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her eldest born—­the first pledge of pure affection, and the promise of a happy wedded life.  Sadly, indeed, had time changed since then.  A young mother, smiling over her first born—­how full of joy was the sunlight of each succeeding day!  Now, widowed and alone, struggling with failing and unequal strength against the tide that was slowly bearing her down the stream, each morning broke to her more and, more drearily, and each evening, as it closed darkly in, brought another shadow to rest in despondency upon her spirit.

Faithfully had she struggled on, hoping still to be able to keep her little ones around her.  The proposition of Michael to put out Henry startled into activity the conscious fear that had for some months been stifled in her bosom; and now she had to look the matter full in the face, and, in spite of all her feelings of reluctance, confess to herself that the effort to keep her children around her must prove unavailing.  But how could she part with her boy?  How could she see him put out among strangers?  How could she bear to let him go away from her side, and be henceforth treated as a servant, and be compelled to perform labor above his years?  The very thought made her sick.