of madness, and if the Recording Angel witnessed the act, he
recorded not the transgression against her, for it was a sin only in
the eyes of man; above it was the child of despair, born of a pure and
innocent mind, and there is no punishment for such.

"Thank God, I have the means of saving my darling child," exclaimed
Mrs. Wentworth, as she bent her steps towards a druggist's store.
Entering it, she purchased a few articles of medicine, and started for
the old negro's cabin, intending to send the old woman for a
physician, as soon as she could reach there.

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