Mrs. Denham sat in her parlour, a two years old baby boy asleep upon her lap, and an anxious, mournful expression upon her face. She wore the dress of a widow, -a dress so new in its folds that it was evidently but a short time since the Dread Messenger had paused at her threshold to bear away its master and bread-winner. The room was a shabby one; the fire but a handful of dusty ashes; rain fell without in the dreary street; it was growing dusk,...