"Do not talk to me of Heaven.

What has God done to aid me in my misery?
Has he not suffered me to feel the pangs of hunger, to see my children deprived of bread, to permit me to stain my whole existence with a crime?
The child is gone to Heaven.

Aye! there her sinlessness and innocence might give her a welcome, and she may be happy, but the blank left in my heart, the darkness of my mind, the cheerless and unpropitious future that unveils itself before my aching eyes, can never be obliterated until I am laid in the grave beside her, and my spirit has winged its flight to the home where she now dwells." She spoke slowly and earnestly, but her words were of despair not of grief.

Motioning to the old woman that she desired no further conversation, Mrs.Wentworth again fixed her gaze upon the dead features of her child.

On them she looked, until the tablet of her memory contained but one impress, that of her daughter's face.