that day, and as she gazed on it the memory of the past
rushed upon her. She thought of the hour when, as a blushing bride,
she leaned on the proud form of her lover, as they walked together in
the sacred edifice to register those vows that bound them in an
indissoluble tie, and unite their hearts in a stronger and holier love
than their lover's vows had done. Then she know not what sorrow was.
No gift of futurity had disclosed to her the wretchedness and penury
that after years had prepared for her. No, then all was joy and
happiness. As she stood by the side of her lover her maiden face
suffused with blushes, and her palpitating heart filled with mingled
felicity and anxiety as she looked down on the bridal dress that
covered her form. No thought, no dream, not even a fear of what after
years would bring to her, stirred the fountain of fear and caused her
a single pang. And now--but why trouble the reader with any further
remarks of the past? That is gone and forever. We have seen her tread
the paths in which all that is dismal and wretched abides; we have
seen herself and her children lead a life, the very thought of which
should cause us to pray it may never be our lot. Words can avail but
little. They only fill the brain with gladness for awhile to turn to
horror afterwards. We have but to write of the present. In it we find
misery enough, we find sorrow and wretchedness, without the hand of
compassion being held forth to help the miserable from the deep and
fearful gulf with which penury and want abound.

The wedding dress was soiled and crumpled; the bunches of orange
blossoms with which it was adorned, lay crushed upon its folds--a fit
appearance for the heart of the owner--It looked like a relic of
grandeur shining in the midst of poverty, and as its once gaudy folds
rested against the counterpane in the bed, the manifest difference of
the two appeared striking and significant.

For a moment Mrs. Wentworth gazed upon this last momento of long past
happiness, and a spasm of grief contracted her features. It passed
away, however, in an instant, and she laid the dress across the dead
body of her child. Drawing a chair to the bedside, she took from her
pocket a spool of thread, some needles and her scissors. Selecting one
of the needles, she thread it, and pinning it in the body of her
dress, removed the wedding gown from the body of her child, and
prepared to make a shroud of it. Rapidly she worked at her task, a