"Mother, what are you crying for?" asked her little daughter, who was
sitting on Mr. Awtry's knees.

"My dear madam," said Mr. Awtry, "why do you give way to tears? If you
desire," he continued, "I will telegraph to Virginia and learn if your
husband is safe."

"Thank you--thank you!" she answered eagerly; "I shall feel deeply
obligated if you will."

"I shall go down to the telegraph office at once," he said, rising
from his seat and placing the child down; "and now, my little
darling," he continued, speaking to the child, "you must tell your ma
not to cry so much." With these words he shook Mrs. Wentworth's hand
and left the house.

The day passed wearily for Mrs. Wentworth; every hour she would open
one of the windows leading to the street and look out, as if expecting
to see Mr. Awtry with a telegraphic dispatch in his hand, and each
disappointment she met with on these visits would only add to her
intense anxiety. The shades of evening had overshadowed the earth, and
Mrs. Wentworth sat at the window of her dwelling waiting the arrival
of the news, which would either remove her fears or plunge her in
sorrow. Long hours passed, and she had almost despaired of Mr. Awtry's
coming that evening, when he walked up the street, and in a few
minutes was in the house.

"What news?" gasped Mrs. Wentworth, starting from her seat and meeting
him at the door of the apartment.