he made no reply, for his heart was bitter with grief, and he felt that consolatory language was a mockery, and however well meant and sincere it may have been, it could not relieve the agony he felt at witnessing the destruction of his family’s happiness.  Oh, let those alone who have felt the burning of the heart when it was wrung with agony, appreciate the misery of men struck down from the pedestal of earthly joy and buried in the gulf of wretchedness.  We have known homes where the heart beat high with joy, and life promised to be a future of happiness and peace; where the fairest flowers of affection seemed to bloom for us, and over our pathway floated its perfume, while before our sight, its loveliness remained undiminished until that fatal delusion, Hope, intoxicated the senses and made us oblivions to reality.  A brief spell—­a charm of short duration, and the hallucination is dispelled, only to leave us seared and blasted, almost hating mankind, and wearing the mask of the hypocrite, leading a double life, to hide the sears left by unsuccessful ambition, or disappointed aspiration.  What were death itself compared with the misery of finding, when too late, that the hopes and happiness we deemed reality, were but a shadow, not a substance, which lingered for awhile and Left us to curse our fate.

And yet it is but life—­one hour on the pinnacle, the other on the ground.  But to our tale.

After remaining by the bedside for several minutes, the doctors were about to leave, when Mrs. Wentworth awoke from her sleep, and gazed with an unmeaning look upon the gentlemen.  She recognized no one—­not even her husband, who never left her, save when nature imperatively demanded repose.

The doctors requested that Alfred and Emma would retire while they examined the patient.  In accordance with their wishes, they did so, and Alfred, entering the balcony, paced up and down, impatient for the result of the consultation.  The door of Mrs. Wentworth’s chamber remained closed for nearly half an hour, when it opened, and Drs. Humphries, Mallard and Purtell issued from it, looking grave and sad.

The heart of the husband sank as he looked at their features.

“Let me know the worst,” he said, huskily, as they approached him.

“We will not deceive you,” replied Dr. Mallard, “your wife, we fear, will remain a maniac while her strength lasts, and then—­” here he paused.

“And then—­” replied Alfred, inquiringly.

“We fear she will only recover her reason to die” continued Dr. Mallard in a tone of sympathy.

“God help, me,” uttered the soldier, as he sunk on a chair and buried his face in his hands.

After a few more words full of sympathy and condolence the two doctors left, and shortly after Dr. Humphries dispatched a servant to bring the little boy from the old negro’s cabin.

“His presence may rally Mr. Wentworth,” the doctor observed to Harry.  “Since the consultation he has remained in the same seat, and has never once visited the room of his wife.  Something must be done to rouse him from his grief, otherwise it will be fatal to his health.”