llow.

"But you've eaten scarcely any thing to-day: Try and take a little
more, dear. It will do you good."

"I can't, indeed, mother." And a slight expression of loathing
passed over the child's face.

"Can't you think of something you could eat?" urged the mother.

"I don't want any thing. The orange tasted good, and that is enough
for to-night," Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.

Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate
a small portion of bread and molasses. But this food touched not her
palate with any pleasurable sensation. She ate, only because she
knew that, unless, she took food, she would not have strength to
perform her duties to her children. For a long series of years, her
system had been accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the
evening meal. A cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to
her. It braced her system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after
the unremitting toils of the day. But, for some time past, she had
felt called upon, for the sake of her children, to deny herself this
luxury--no, comfort--no, this, to her, one of the necessaries of
life. The consequence was that her appetite lost its tone. No food
tasted pleasantly to her; and the labors of the evening were
performed under depression of spirits and nervous relaxation of
body.

This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry
bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water, in which a little
milk had been poured. As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon
the face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her
eldest born--the first pledge of pure affection, and the promise of
a happy wedded life. Sadly, indeed, had time changed since then. A
young mother, smiling over her first born--how full of joy was the
sunlight of each succeeding day! Now, widowed and alone, struggling
with failing and unequal strength against the tide that was slowly
bearing her down the stream, each morning broke to her more and,
more drearily, and each evening, as it closed darkly in, brought
another shadow to rest in despondency upon her spirit.

Faithfully had she struggled on, hoping still to be able to keep her
little ones around her. The proposition of Michael to put out Henry
startled into activity the conscious fear that had for some months
been stifled in her bosom; and now she had to look the matter full
in the face, and, in spite of all her feelings of reluctance,
co