r wants, until nothing was
left in the room but a solitary bedstead. Starvation in its worst form
stared her in the face, until at last she sold what clothing she had
brought out from New Orleans. This relieved her necessities but a
short time, and then her last resource was gone.

If her present was dark, the future seemed but one black cloud of
despair. Hope, that _ignis fatuus_, which deceives so many on earth,
left the soldier's wife, and she was indeed wretched. The blooming
woman had become a haggard and care-worn mother. She had no thought
for herself. It was for her children alone she felt solicitous, and
when the day arrived that saw her without the means of purchasing
bread, her long filling cup of misery overflowed, and she wept.

Yes, she wept. Wept as if her whole life had been changed in a moment,
from one of joy and happiness, to that of sadness and misery.

Her children in that dark hour clustered around her. _They_ could not
cry. A fast of over twenty-four hours had dried all tears within them.
They only wondered for awhile, until the sharp pangs of hunger
reminded them of another and greater woe. They too had been changed.
The bloom of youth had departed from their little cheeks, while in the
eyes of the oldest an unnatural light burned. She was fast sinking to
the grave, but the mother knew it not. Knew not that her darling child
had contracted a disease, which would shortly take her to Heaven, for
the little Eva spoke no word of complaint. Young, as she was, she saw
her mother's agony of soul, and though the little lips were parched
and dry, she told not her ailing.

The tears continued to flow from Mrs. Wentworth, and still the
children gazed on in wonderment. They knew not what they meant.

"Mother," at last said her little infant, "why do you cry?"

She took her on her knees. "Nothing, my darling," she replied.

"Then stop crying," he said, pressing his little hand on Mrs.
Wentworth's cheek. "It makes me feel bad."

"I will stop crying, darling," she replied, drying her tears and
smiling.

Smiles are not always the reply of the heart. We have seen men smile
whoso whole life was a scene of misfortune, and yet this emblem of
happiness has lit their features. It is outward show--a fruit, whose
surface presents a tempting appearance to the eye, but which is
blasted and withered within. Smiles are often like the fruit called
the _Guava_. It is a beautiful looking fruit which grows in the West