tworth's words.

At last Mr. Elder spoke, and his words were eagerly listened to by
Mrs. Wentworth.

"This annoys me very much," he said. "Your importunities are very
disagreeable to me, and I must insist that they shall cease. As I told
you before, I cannot afford to lose tenants in an unnecessary act of
liberality, and through mistaken charity. The fact is," he continued
in a firm and decisive tone, "you _must_ leave this room to-night. I
will not listen to any more of your pleading. Your case is but the
repetition of many others who fled from their homes and left all they
had, under the impression that the people of other States would be
compelled to support them. This is a mistaken idea, and the sooner its
error is made known the better it will be for the people of the South,
whose homes are in the hands of the enemy."

"Then you are determined that my children and myself shall be turned
from the shelter of this room to-night," she enquired, dropping her
hands by her side, and assuming a standing attitude.

"You have heard what I have already said, my good woman," he replied.
"And let me repeat, that I will listen to no further supplications."

"I shall supplicate to you no more," she answered. "I see, alas! too
well, that I might sooner expect pity from the hands of an uncivilized
Indian than charity or aid from you. Nor will I give you any trouble
to forcibly eject me."

"I am very glad to hear it," he rejoined.

"Yes," she continued, without noticing his words, "I shall leave of my
own accord, and there," she said, pointing to Ella, "lies my sick
child. Should exposure on this night cause her death, I shall let you
know of it that you may have some subject, accruing from your
heartless conduct, on which to ponder."

Slowly she removed all the articles that were in the room, and placed
them on the sidewalk. There were but few things in the room, and her
task was soon completed.

"Come, darling," she said as she wrapped up Ella in a cover-lid and
lifted the child in her arms, "come, and let us go."

Mr. Elder still stood with folded arms looking on.

"Farewell, sir," she said, turning to him, "you have driven a
soldier's helpless wife and children from the roof that covered them
into the open streets, with none other than skies above as a covering.
May God pardon you as I do," and speaking to the little boy who still
clung to her dress, she replied, "Come, darling, let us go."

Go where? She knew not