pon the squalid and haggard
form of the broken hearted woman, "this surely cannot be the wife of
Alfred Wentworth."

Mrs. Wentworth had paid no attention to the visitors when they first
entered, but on hearing her husband's name pronounced, rose from her
crouching position and confronted the speaker. The name of the one she
loved had awoke the slumbering faculties of the woman, and, like a
flash of electricity on a rod of steel, her waning reason flared up
for a moment.

"You spoke my husband's name," she said in a hoarse tone, "what of
him?"

"He is my friend, madam," replied Harry, "and as such I have called to
see you, so that you may be removed from this place."

"Thank you," she answered; "yours is the first voice of charity I have
listened to since I left New Orleans. But it is too late; I have
nothing now to live for. Adversity has visited me until nothing but
disgrace and degradation is left of a woman who was once looked upon
as a lady."

"There is no necessity for despondency, my good madam," observed Dr.
Humphries. "The misfortunes which have attended you are such as all
who were thrown in your situation are subject to. Our object in coming
here," he continued, "is to learn the true cause of your being in this
wretched place. Disguise nothing, but speak truthfully, for there are
times when crimes in some become necessity in others."

"My tale is briefly told," she answered. "Forced by the cruelty of a
villain to leave my comfortable home in New Orleans, I sought refuge
in the Confederate lines. I anticipated that refugees would meet with
a welcome from the more fortunate people of the South. In that I was
disappointed; for when my means gave out, and every endeavor to
procure work to feed my children had failed--when I had not a dollar
to purchase bread for my innocent babes, I applied for assistance.
None but the most dire necessity would have prompted me to such a
step, and, Oh, God! when it was refused--when the paltry pittance I
asked for was refused, the hope which I had clung so despairingly to,
vanished, and I felt myself indeed a miserable woman. Piece after
piece of furniture went, until all was gone--my clothing was next
sold to purchase bread. The miserable life I led, the hours spent with
my children around me crying for bread--the agonizing pangs which rent
my mother's heart when I felt I could not comply with their
demand--all--all combined to make me an object of abject misery. But
why