the
table. "Are you not well?"

"No; I am sick," he replied, sadly.

"Sick?" ejaculated the wife, in alarm.

"Yes, sick at heart."

Mrs. Bancroft sighed deeply.

"My cup is not yet full, Mary," he said, in a bitter tone. "There is
yet more gall and wormwood to be added. We must go back to the two
rooms, and live as we began some sixteen or seventeen years ago. My
salary, from this day, is to be only five hundred dollars. It is
useless to try for a better place--all is ill-luck now. We must go
down, down, down!"

Mrs. Bancroft wept bitterly, but did not reply.

Back to the two rooms they went, but oh! how sad and weary-hearted
they were. It was not with them as when with the first dear pledge
of their love, they drew close together in the small bounds of a
chamber and parlor, and were happy. Why could they not be happy now?
They still had three children, and an income equal to their
necessities, if dispensed with prudent care. They were relieved from
a world of labor and anxiety. No--no--they could not be happy. Their
hearts were larger now, for they had been expanding for years, as
objects of love came one after the other in quick succession; but
these objects of love, with two or three solitary exceptions, had
been taken away from them, and there was silence, vacancy, and
desolation in their bosoms.

"My cup is not yet full, Mary." No, it seemed that it was not yet
full, for a few days only had elapsed, after the family had
contracted itself to meet the diminished income, before little Harry
began to droop about. Mr. Bancroft noticed this, but he was afraid
to speak of it, lest the very expression of his fear should produce
the evil dreaded. He came and went to and from his daily tasks with
an oppressive weight ever at his heart. He looked for evil and only
evil; but without the bravery to meet it and bear it like a man.

One night, after having, before retiring to bed, bent long in
anxious solicitude over the child for whom all his fears was
aroused, he was awakened by a cry of anguish from his wife. He
started up in alarm, and sprung upon the floor, exclaiming:

"In Heaven's name, Mary! what is the matter?"

His wife made no answer. She was lying with her face pressed close
to that of little Harry, and both were pale as ashes. The father
placed his hand upon the cheek of his boy, and found it marble cold.
Clasping his hands tightly against his forehead, he staggered
backward and fell; but he did not