"I came from my home," said she, "in search of my husband. Three years ago I was married in my father's house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South from his Northern home on an artist's tour, selling many pictures and painting more. He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a wealthy planter by the name of Sumner." I started involuntarily. "There were two of these gentlemen--brothers--and they owned large plantations with many colored people. Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth. My father gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we were happy. Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and said 'Mary, I must go North--I have left some tangled business snarls there, which I must see to.' He left, promising an early return. The letters I received from him were frequent, and beautifully tender in their expressions of love for me. I was happy; but the days wore into weeks, and his return still delayed. I began to feel anxious and fearful, when I received a letter from Chicago, saying he had been obliged to go to that city on business, and would be unavoidably detained. He would like me to come to him, if it were not for fear of my being too delicate to bear the journey. My parents would have been quite unwilling also, for the promise of the days lay before me, and with this new hope that it would not be so very long ere he would come, I was again contentedly happy. The letters grew less frequent, and the days grew long, and when September came my little girl came too, and how I longed for her father to come. "My parents telegraphed him of the event, saying also, 'Come, if possible--Mary is in a fever of anxiety,' but he did not come; the telegram was not replied to, and although dangerously ill, I lived. Now the letters came no more, and I, still believing in his goodness, felt sure that he was either sick or dead. My little Mabel lived one year. Oh, how sweet she was! and one month after her death I received a letter asking why I was so silent, telling me of great trouble and overwhelming me with sorrow. I answered kindly, but my father was convinced by this that he was a 'villain,' to use his own expression. The fact of his not writing for so long, and then writing a letter almost of accusation against me, made me feel fearful, and as I looked back on my suffering, determined, if it were possible to some day know the truth. My answer to the letter I speak of was received, and he again wrote, and this time told me a pitiful tale of the loss by fire of all his artist possessions, and his closing sentence was 'we may never meet again, for in the grave I hope to find refuge from want. If you desire to answer this, write 'without delay. It is hard to bear poverty and want.'