"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