"I hope he is worthy of you, whoever it may be."

"Have you not suspected me, Lizzie? Has not my tell-tale face betrayed me before? Can't you think who it is to whom I refer?"

"Can it be Emile Le Grande?" said Lizzie, after a moment's reflection, with a look of astonishment.

"Yes," faltered Leah, "he is the one that tells me he loves me."

"And do you love him, Leah?" said Lizzie, with some hesitation. The curtain that continued fluttering with renewed force was wafted full into the face of the young Jewess, and veiled the crimson blushes that overspread it. As gently as it came, the curtain floated back, and Lizzie detected the traces of Leah's sudden emotion. Without waiting for further inquiry, Leah continued:

"I determined I would tell you all, Lizzie, before we parted, and ask your advice. Yes, I think I do love Emile—love him, because he says he loves me. Last night he urged me again to become his wife. I trembled like a frightened bird; I felt that I was listening to dangerous words, yet I had not courage to break away from him."

"Did he say anything else—I mean about your being a Jewess?"

"Oh, yes; much. He said he cared nothing about that difference, if I did not; but I told him I did. I assured him that I had been reared a Hebrew of the straightest sect, and that my father would never consent to my marrying a Christian. At my remarks he laughed, and replied that he would take care of the opposition, if I would only marry him. He urged and pleaded with me to promise him, but I steadfastly refused. He is very fascinating though, and I think a dangerous man to come in the way of a poor, irresolute, unhappy girl like myself."

"Did he say much about the difference in religion, Leah?"

"He said something, not a great deal; said he was not religious himself; that one faith was about as useful to him as another, as he did not know positively which was the true one. He said he would as soon marry a Jewess as a Christian, so he loved her, and the religion might take care of itself."

"Did you ask if his parents knew of his love for you?"

"Yes. He replied that Helen knew of it, but he had not troubled himself to tell his parents. I did not like that remark; and I replied that they would doubtless object to my being a Jewess, should he tell them. He laughed at the bare suggestion, and I upbraided him a little for this apparent disregard of his parents."

"You might have referred him to the fifth commandment with propriety, Leah, I think."

"So I might, but did not think of it. I have told you about all now, Lizzie, and I want your opinion of such intermarrying. The subject stirs me deeply, and I have no other friend to whom I would dare confide it. I trust no one as I do you." Leah looked seriously and steadily into her friend's face, and Lizzie began:

"What I say now, Leah, is not intended as advice to you in regard to marrying Emile Le Grande, but only my opinion in general about marriages where such material differences exist. In the first place, a man who confesses that he has no religious faith, is to be pitied, if not despised. And I think an unbelieving Christian far worse than the most unbelieving Jew. It argues such an utter want of consistency and fidelity. I should fear to trust a man that could make such a confession. The Le Grandes are an irreligious family, and Emile's education has necessarily been neglected in that most important respect. In consequence of their want of religious principles, they are notoriously proud, haughty, and vain—silly even—of their family distinction. I imagine that Mrs. Le Grande could scarcely receive a deeper wound to her family pride, than from Emile's marrying a Jewess, no matter how lovely or high-born. All she knows or remembers of the Mordecais is, that the banker was once a poor, despised pawnbroker. No years of honest endeavor, or successful attainment, could wipe this fact from her retentive memory. It would be a misnomer, Leah, to call such a woman a Christian. She is an utter stranger to the sweet principles of faith and love embraced by true Christians, and practised by those who believe that they have 'passed from death unto life.'

"Then, your people, too, are unrelenting in their views on such unnatural marriages. Suppose you were to marry this man, in the face of the unyielding opposition of the parents on both sides—there's little hope that they could be reconciled. You see at once how you might be considered an outcast from your people and his too. Your children would be neither Jew nor Christian; for all the external rites and ceremonies of the earth cannot transform a Christian into a Jew, or a Jew into a Christian. Accursed be the nominal Christian that would allow his children, by ceremony or rite, to be made nominally Jews. Such a one is worse than an infidel; and has denied the faith. God made the Hebrews a great and glorious people—his own chosen children. But between Christians and Hebrew there is a wide, wide difference; and God made that, too.

"No; Leah, if I were advising a Jewess to marry a Gentile, which I am not doing, I would say, Select a man deeply rooted in religious principle, and clinging humbly to his Christian faith. Such a man would rarely, if ever, deceive or ill-use you."

"I see that you are right, Lizzie," interrupted Leah, apparently aroused by her companion's words. "I'll heed your teaching, and never listen to another word of love from the one who might lead me into temptation, and perhaps into a fatal snare. Alas!" she continued, with her dark eyes flashing, "but for a terrible lie, a cruel deception, I should still be the affianced of Mark Abrams, and happy in the hope of becoming his wife—not an unhappy, disappointed girl, open to the flattery and fascinations of another man."

"Keep your resolve, Leah, if you can; and may the all-wise Father give you strength," replied Lizzie.

"God helping me, I will; but you know I am a weak and helpless creature, and when you are gone, my only bosom-comfort and faithful friend will have departed. Promise me that you will never cease to love me, and remember with pity the heart that loves you and will ever yearn to be with you."

Lizzie made no reply; the swelling heart choked down the utterances that struggled to escape her lips; and drawing Leah close to her bosom, she embraced her in a silent, warm, and tender clasp. "Trust me, even unto death," at length she whispered softly; and the reply came:

"I will."

At the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, Lizzie said, "There comes Aunt Rose. You will be at the wharf this evening, Leah, to see me off, and to bid me God-speed with one of your bright smiles, that I may hope for a safe arrival at my destined port?"

"Well, we have had our talk without interruption, and so I'll leave you," said Leah. "Your aunt will certainly want you to herself awhile. I'll meet you at the wharf in time. Till then, good-by."

As Mrs. Heartwell entered Lizzie's room, Leah passed out; and a sweeter, sadder face Mrs. Heartwell said she had rarely seen.



CHAPTER XII.



THE hours stole on, and the one for Lizzie's departure was at hand. As the sun sank slowly down to rest, on that memorable sunny June day, clouds of crimson, purple, and gold, blended in fantastic shapes, overspread the broad horizon, and attracted the most casual observer by their wondrous beauty. Toward the eastern horizon the sky was blue and cloudless, blending with the water in a vast azure immensity.

The cool, crisp sea-breeze had dissipated the intense heat of the day, and crowds of gay pedestrians, and scores of liveried vehicles, were passing and repassing upon the fashionable boulevard, where the wealth and beauty of the Queen City daily gathered after the heat of the day was over.

The Firefly, laden with her burden, was ready at the pier, awaiting the signal to depart. Lizzie Heartwell's friends still lingered upon the inviting deck, reluctant to speak the parting word that must so surely come. Dr. and Mrs. Heartwell, her uncle and aunt, Judge Amity and his daughter, her Sabbath-school teacher, Bertha, Helen, and Leah, the remaining ones of the "indissoluble quartette," as the school-girls termed these friends, were assembled on the deck, and with them Emile Le Grande and her newly formed friend, George Marshall. In compliance with his promise he had come to speed the parting vessel with good wishes, and watch its receding form till it was lost from view upon the trackless waters.

As the citadel gun fired its sunset signal, the planks were ordered in, friends rushed on shore, and then the Firefly moved from her moorings, to plough the deep again. As George Marshall spoke his last adieu, he slipped a tiny billet-doux into the hand of the departing girl, who half heeding the action, dropped it into her pocket, and sat down in loneliness upon the deck, to watch the slowly vanishing shore. Fainter and dimmer grew the speck upon the deep to the friends who watched on shore, fainter and dimmer in the gathering twilight, till the bark rounded old Defiance, and was divided by distance and darkness from their vision.

When Lizzie Heartwell, attended by the kind captain, descended below deck, she remembered the little missive, and drawing it from its hiding-place, read:

"Miss HEARTWELL: What would you think, if my wanderings should lead me, some day, to Melrose? "Regretfully, "G.M."

"Think I should like to see you," uttered the young girl, with a smile, as she folded the note again out of sight.

As the last glimpse of the Firefly faded from the vision of the sad-eyed watchers, they turned slowly from their lookout of sorrow, and bent their steps homeward.

"It's growing late, Miss Leah," said Emile, who stood near the young Jewess. "May I see you safely home?"

"Thank you, but it is not too late for me to go alone," she replied; "besides, my walk will lead to my uncle Jacob's, where I may spend the night; that's not very far, you know."

Determined not to be baffled in his purpose to escort Leah, he replied:

"'The longer the walk, the shorter the way,' with you, Miss Leah. Allow me to attend you, I pray." His pertinacity prevailed; and falteringly she replied, "As you like, Mr. Le Grande," resolving in her heart though, that this should be the last time. "Only this morning," thought she, "what did I promise Lizzie? And before the day is ended, I have broken that promise. What an irresolute creature I am! But this shall be the last. I vow it again."

"You will miss Miss Heartwell, I judge," began Emile, as he walked forward by her side. "From your sorrowful expression, one might think she had died, instead of vanished from sight in a vessel. I trust there are yet some friends in the Queen City; at least one, who will be kindly remembered in the absence of Miss Heartwell."

"Yes, Mr. Le Grande, I have some friends, a few, I trust, left behind; but no one, not a soul, that can supply her place in my affections. She has been more than a school-friend to me; she has been a counsellor, a sister; one who above all others comprehends my nature and sympathizes with and appreciates my character," said Leah, warmly.

"Indeed, Miss Heartwell is to be envied in possessing so much of your affection, and yet I think you speak unjustly in attributing to her alone the heart of love and sympathy you do. Have I not told you of my attachment and devotion to you? And do you still require other protestations to confirm the sincerity of my confession?"

At these words-unwelcome words to Leah-she colored deeply, and turning her dark, burning eyes full upon Emile, said:

"Mr. Le Grande, I pray you never let me hear you utter such a sentiment as that again. We are friends, and, if you choose, may always be; but, in all truthfulness I say it, more than friends we can never be. I confess frankly that your society is very agreeable to me, your manner fascinating, your style attractive; but I am a Jewess of the strictest sect, and you a Christian, and not a strict one; and these facts alone form an insurmountable barrier in the way of our being more than friends. A great gulf lies between us, over which even love cannot securely go. You cannot come to me, and I dare not cross to you. It is dishonor to God and disobedience to parents, to think of such a step. Mr. Le Grande, I beg you, forget this passion you profess; crush it out if it exists, and remember Leah Mordecai, the Jewess, as only a friend. Do you promise?" she said, trembling from head to to foot, for it had required all the moral strength of her yielding nature to utter these words-words that could instantly quench the only taper of hope that still burned in her soul.

"Do I promise?" he replied with haughty emotion. "No! I swear I will not! So long as you are free I will love you; and so long as your maidenhood gives the opportunity, I shall tell you of that love. Give you up? I, who love you with a mad and foolish devotion? I promise not to love you? No! no! Never, never, never, while hope lasts. What care I if you are a Jewess? It's the shrine of beauty where I bow, and because a Jewess breathes therein, shall I withdraw my homage? Never while I live. I swear it!"

Frightened at her desperate lover's words, Leah walked on in silence, almost regretting that her courage had permitted her to speak her mind so freely. After a time she said, "Do not be angry with me, Mr. Le Grande, I did not mean to offend you."

"It's worse than offence, it is death," he replied.

Ascending the steps of her uncle's house, by this time reached, Leah extended her hand and said, "Good-by. I'll tarry here to-night." Clasping her soft hand, he said, "I shall see you soon. Good-night."

A week after Madam Truxton's school closed, the term of the military academy ended. The drilling, drilling, drilling, was stopped, the graduating class of cadets had either won or lost the honors for which they contested; and the roll of candidates for military honors was handed to the world. Conspicuous among the names crowned with well-won distinction was that of George Marshall. A nobler, braver spirit never stepped from college walls upon life's crowded highway, or one with firmer, truer tread than he.



CHAPTER XIII.



TIME rolled on. Months had melted into months until they were calendared by years, since we bade adieu to Madam Truxton's finishing class on that departed June day 185-, and watched with regretful eye the last well-executed drill of the graduating cadets of the same year.

Sunny twelvemonths only had so far passed over these sundered friends, many of whom still clung to each other with the old love of school days, and maintained by frequent correspondence a thorough knowledge of each other's lives and doings. It is worth mentioning that these years had brought some changes to the lives and fortunes of three of the four firm friends at Madam Truxton's, and to others who were once sworn friends at the institute.

In her quiet home at Melrose, Lizzie Heartwell was confronting daily the stern duties of life amid a bevy of bright-eyed little scholars, wearing with easy grace the dignity of school-mistress.

Helen Le Grande, a bright fresh blonde in school days, had blossomed into a fair, beautiful, fashionable belle, as devoted to society as society was devoted to her.

Bertha Levy, roguish and merry-hearted as ever, had been sent abroad to complete her education in Berlin—"To sober her down, and try and break her spirit," as she wrote in a letter to Lizzie.

It was only the life of Leah Mordecai that apparently was marked by no change. She was older by a few years-that was all the world saw of change in her life. To strangers' eyes, she was still pursuing the even tenor of her life, still wearing the melancholy expression, and still envied by many for her wealth and beauty. The eyes of the world could not read the impoverished heart that throbbed within her bosom.

On first leaving college, Emile Le Grande intended to study law, and for months endeavored to concentrate his mind upon the prosaic, practical teachings of Blackstone. The effort proved unsuccessful, and then procuring employment in a well-established banking house, he applied himself to business with commendable assiduity. Yet alive in his heart was the passion so long nourished for the beautiful Jewess. He still lost no opportunity of assuring her again and again of his unchanging devotion, and constantly endeavored, by tenderest utterances of love, to gain the promise of her hand.

This persistent homage, though avoided long by Leah, became in time not unwelcome; and as month after month passed on, she often whispered to herself, "Struggle as I may against it, I do love him. Love wins love, always, I believe."

George Marshall, realizing the fulfilment of his long-cherished dream, was in the active service of his country, a captain in the regular army. Though he was removed from his native State, no one who knew him could doubt that he stood firmly, bravely at his post of duty, ready to do his country's work at her bidding.



CHAPTER XIV.



"MY son," said Mrs. Abrams, in low, gentle tone to Mark one day, as she looked into the small library where he sat busily at work upon something half-concealed in his hand, "come here a mimute, won't you?"

"Are you in a hurry, mother?" he replied, lifting his black eyes, bright with an expression of determination, and resting them full upon his mother's face.

"No, not exactly, if you are busy; but what are you doing?"

"I'll tell you when I come in, and not keep you waiting long either."

Mrs. Abrams quietly withdrew, and returned to the bedside of her little daughter Rachel, who lay suffering from pain and burning with fever.

"What can mamma do for her darling now?" said the fond mother, as she bent her head over her child and smoothed back the fair hair from the heated brow; "does your arm still hurt, my lamb?" The child's moan was her only answer.

"What a pity! How cruel that your dear little arm should have been so torn by that savage dog!" continued Mrs. Abrams, as she wet the bandage again with the cooling lotion, and brushed away the tears that she could not repress at the sight of her little daughter's suffering.

The sound of footsteps, and Mark stood in the doorway, holding in his hand a small, dark object, and said:

"Mother, do you see this? Well, I've got it ready—"

"O Mark!" interrupted his mother in horror. "When did you get that deadly thing: I beg of you, put that pistol up at once; the very sight of it terrifies me."

Mark laughed and replied, "I'll fix old Dame Flannagan's dog, mother, and then I'll put it away. She hid the dog from the police, but she can't keep it hid always. I shall kill it on sight, and go prepared to do so. I have vowed I would."

"Let the dog alone, son, you may get into trouble if you do not," replied his mother.

"Indeed, I will not let the dog alone," replied Mark indignantly, as he drew nearer to the bed whereon the suffering little sister lay, with lacerated arm and burning brow. "To think of this dear child, as she was innocently trundling her hoop along the side-walk, being attacked by that savage brute, and her life so narrowly saved! Indeed, I'll not let it alone. I'll shoot it the first time I set eyes upon it, and the old hag had better not say anything to me after I have done it. Poor little darling!

"What shall brother Mark bring his little sister today?" continued the fond brother, stooping over and kissing the child again and again, before leaving for the office of the shipping firm, of which he had just been made a partner.

"Yes, mother," he continued, slipping the weapon of death into the inner pocket of his coat, "I am not a warlike man, as you know, but I'll carry this," pointing to the pistol, "till I kill that dog, sure;" and adjusting his coat and hat he passed out of the house.

Rabbi Abrams did not reside among the palatial residences of the Queen City. A rather restricted income compelled him to find a more unpretentious home than was perhaps in keeping with his avocation and position in life. Yet, carrying into practice the teaching he set forth, to "owe no man anything," and never live beyond one's income, he established his home in a portion of the city that was rather characterized by low rents than aristocratic abodes. However, they were respectable, and comfortably situated withal. Immediately adjoining the rabbi's house lived a garrulous old Irish woman, at once the aversion and dread of the neighborhood. Old Margery O'Flannagan needed no protection against the incursions of depredators, beyond the use of her own venomous tongue; still, she further strengthened her ramparts by the aid of a dog of most savage and ferocious propensities, that she dignified by the ominous name of "Danger." Between her and Danger there existed the strongest bond of friendship, if not affection. In an unexpected manner, this savage dog had assaulted the little daughter of the rabbi, and when the father demanded the life of the dog at the hands of the police, she hid him away out of reach, and swearing like a pirate, threatened to kill any man that dared molest Danger.



CHAPTER XV.



LEAH MORDECAI sat alone in her bed chamber. A bright fire glowed within the grate, and the gas-light overhead added its mellow brightness to the apartment. Arrayed in a comfortable crimson silk wrapper, the girl sat before the fire, with her slippered foot upon the fender, and gazed steadily and thoughtfully into the fantastic coals. Without, the world was cold and bright, for a pale, tremulous moon filled the world with its beauty. The wind came in across the sea, and mingling with the murmur of the waters, produced a weird and ghost-like sound, as it swept through half-deserted streets, penetrating rudely the abodes of poverty, and whistling around the mansions of the rich. This sound Leah heard faintly, as it sought ingress at her windows, and down the half-closed chimney. She shuddered; yet it was not an unusual or a frightful sound, and not half so saddening as the sound that floated up the stairs: the sound of low, sweet singing-Mark Abrams singing with flute-like voice to her sister Sarah, who was soon, very soon, expected to become his wife. Leah had heard that voice before, had listened to its melody, attuned to other words, and as she recalled the vanished time, she trembled, shuddered, with an indefinable terror.

As the sound of the music ceased, she arose and walked to the window. With both hands pressed closely beside her face, so as to exclude every gleam of light from within, she looked steadily out of the window. All without was bright, and cold, and beautiful. White fleecy clouds drifted about the heavens, like so many phantom barks upon the deep blue sea.

"It's cold without and cold within," she muttered, and then, as if startled by some sudden resolve, she turned from the window back to a small escritoire, saying:

"Yes, I'll delay no longer. I must answer Lizzie's letter and tell her all. My duties for the coming week will be pressing, allowing me no opportunity for writing, equal to that of the present."

Then she wrote: "QUEEN CITY, January 20, 185-.

"MY OWN CHERISHED FRIEND: To-night from my casement I looked out upon the cold, bright world, wrapped in moonlight, and as I gazed at the far-off misty horizon, the distance called to mind my far-off friend at Melrose—recalled to mind, too, the fact that your last welcome letter has for an unwonted length of time remained unanswered. Your letter that came on the new year, came as the flowers of spring, always fresh and beautiful. It has been neglected from the inevitable press of circumstances by which I have been surrounded, which neglect, I feel assured, you will appreciate and forgive, when I have detailed the following facts.

"My sister Sarah is to be married in a week. This approaching event has been the cause of my restricted time, pressing out of sight, and even out of memory, all letter-writing.

"Yes, dear Lizzie, the long-expected nuptials are actually about to be celebrated, and all our household, except myself, are in a fever of excitement and delight.

"My step-mother is ecstatic over the success of her scheming, and even condescends to be kind to me,-to me, Lizzie, whom she has so long and so faithfully despised.

"My father, too, seems happy over this alliance, knowing Mark's excellent character and business qualifications, and appreciating the connection with the rabbi's family. Mark himself appears happy in the hope of securing Sarah for his wife. But as to Sarah, I can scarcely divine her feelings; she is too young and light-hearted fully to comprehend the step before her. She seems delighted with the occasion that bestows upon her so many handsome presents; and beyond this I think she scarcely casts a thought. The marriage will be solemnized at the synagogue, and the reception held here at home. Mark has given Sarah some elegant gifts, gifts that should be mine. Is it wrong to write those words—words that contain so much meaning? It may be; but as you know all, dear Lizzie, I shall not erase them. And this reminds me of something I must tell you, of another piece of double-dealing and treachery imposed upon me by Rebecca. Some weeks ago, my father's cousin, Baron von Rosenberg, hearing of Sarah's approaching marriage-I have told you of this cousin before-sent over a box of valuable presents for the children, all of us, including Sarah, of course. Among the articles sent, were an elegant crimson velvet mantle, and a diamond brooch. 'These,' wrote the baron, 'are for your eldest daughter-Leah I believe.'

"My father gave the letter to his wife, supposing, of course, that I would be allowed a perusal of it. But instead she secreted the letter, and in disposing of the gifts, said to me 'Here, Leah, is a handsome necklace, sent to you by the baron, and this elegant velvet mantle and diamond brooch are for your sister Sarah-wedding presents. How kind of the baron to remember her so substantially!' 'Yes,' said I, 'it was kind, and thoughtful too. I am glad that he has been so generous. I certainly thank him for his remembrance of me.' I had no dream but that she was telling me the truth, nor should I have suspected the deception, but, unfortunately, I overheard my father one day say, 'Rebecca, how did Leah like the mantle and brooch the baron sent her?'

"'Oh, she thought them beautiful, as they are,' was the quick reply; 'but like a generous girl-there are few such-she begged her sister to keep them, as suitable bridal gifts from her, as well as tokens of her love.'

"'She's a dear unselfish creature,' replied my father, with the credulity of a child; 'I never saw another young person just like her. She's so deep and hidden in her nature, one cannot easily read her thoughts. I wish sometimes she was more open and confiding; but she is a darling, for all her reticence.'

"'Yes, and loves Sarah to idolatry,' was the smooth, well-put rejoinder.

"This much I heard, dear Lizzie, of the conversation, and then, with a horrified, sickening sensation, I flew away-flew away to solitude, and communion with myself.

"I dared not undeceive my father; and as to the gifts my heart cried out, 'Go, vain baubles, go? What are diamonds and velvet to a desolate soul? Go, as Mark Abrams, and many other things rightfully mine, have gone from me—through treachery and fraud.'

"At this dreadful discovery, dear Lizzie, I longed for your true heart, so warm with sympathy, but it was far, far away, and no medium of communication between us but the soulless, tearless pen. That was inadequate then; now, the feeling has passed.

"But I crave your pardon for consuming so much time and space upon myself and my woes. Forgive me.

"When the wedding is over I'll write you a full and detailed account of it all.

"Did I tell you in my last of Bertha Levy? She is cultivating her voice in Berlin, and promises to become a marvellous singer, they say. Would you ever have thought she could be sober long enough to sing even a short ballad? What a girl Bertha was!-real good and kind though, despite her witchery.

"Oh, me! do you ever wish, Lizzie, you were a school-girl again at Madam Truxton's? I do. I often recall the song: "'Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,' and am always sorrowful that my cry is unheeded by this swift-footed monarch.

"I see Madam Truxton occasionally. She is always engrossed, as you know, and the pressing duties to the new pupils exclude from her mind all remembrance of the old ones. Yet I love her, and always shall.

"I think I hear you asking, 'What of Emile?' and in a few brief words I can reply. I still see him occasionally, and he still professes his unchanging love for me. Forgive me, Lizzie; pardon what may seem in me a weakness, but I must confess it, I believe I love Emile. Firmly as I once promised you to shut my heart against his overtures of love, I have slowly but surely yielded my resolution, and now I can but frankly confess it. I do not think I shall ever marry him. I have told him so again and again, and I believe I shall never surrender this resolve. I have never told my father of Emile's devotion to me. I have not deemed it necessary, as I do not intend to marry him; and, then, I have been afraid to tell him. I only meet Emile by chance, and but rarely. I know you would advise me not to see him at all, and maybe I will not in the future. Nous verrons.

"Since I wrote to you last, Kitty Legare has died. She has been fading, as you know, for a long time with consumption. Dear girl, now she is at rest; and, I think, to be envied.

"But dear friend, I am drawing my letter to a tedious length. The stillness of the hour admonishes me to seek repose. So, hastily and with everlasting love, I bid you good night. "Your own "LEAH."



CHAPTER XVI.



THE days passed on, and the night before the wedding hung its cold, starless gloom over the Queen City-hung as the sable pall above the dead.

"My dear," said Mrs. Abrams, as Mark on this evening was preparing to leave his house for that of his affianced, to make the last necessary arrangements for the coming ceremony, "I wish you could be with me to-night. A mother's heart calls for the last evening of her son's free life, claims the last moments of the time when she can call him exclusively her own. To-morrow, dear boy, you are no longer mine. I shall have only a secondary claim upon your love and companionship, and must in the future console myself with the knowledge, that in losing a mother my son has gained a wife."

"O mother," replied Mark, with a troubled look, "don't speak so. I am compelled to be at Mr. Mordecai's a little while to night, and also to call at Crispin's, and see that my boot is stretched, and then I'll hasten back. Tight boots on a wedding day, mother, will not do at all, you know," added Mark playfully, as he stroked the soft hair that waved back from the oval Jewish face-a pale, gentle face it was. "I'll be back very soon."

"Brother Mark, isn't you glad my arm is so well? Mother says I may go to the synagogue, too, to-morrow, and see you married," said the innocent little sister, whose lacerated arm still hung in the snowy bandage around her neck.

"Yes, dovey, indeed I am," replied Mark, bending down beside the fair child, and tenderly caressing her. "If my little Rachel could not be there, brother Mark would not consider himself well married. I am only sorry that I haven't had a peep at that vicious dog that hurt my darling so. Never mind, I am still ready and waiting for his reappearance, and then I'll have revenge.—Good-night, dear mother, I must go; a sweet good-night to you and little Rachel-till I come back." The young man stepped out into the cold, dark night, and turned his face toward the elegant home of the Jewish banker.

"Umph! umph! dis is a hard night for old Peter-cold wind, and no stars. People ought to 'preciate de old carrier," grunted out rather than spoke, a rather short, slightly bent old negro, as he stood peering curiously out of the window of the dimly lighted, misty old printing-office of the "Queen City Courier." Then turning around he shuffled toward the door, ejaculating, "Bad night on my rheumatiz;" and continuing, as he descended the well-worn stairs, "de boss just give me a little of de w'iskey bitters-w'iskey bitters mighty good for de rheumatiz. Maybe when dey warm me up good, I won't feel so stiff, and de cold won't pinch so dreadful. Umph! umph! umph! ward number two comes fust," and clutching the bundle of papers more tightly, and gathering again the folds of the well-worn gray blanket around him, the old carrier struck out, as briskly as the cold and his stiffened limbs would allow, on his accustomed beat.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and for an hour he trudged on and on, past block and square, casting the welcome household visitor, "The Courier," right and left as he went. Suddenly he stopped a moment to listen. "Dere, it's four o'clock," he said, as old St. Luke's rang out the hour. "I'll soon be through dis ward, an' in time for the up-town gentry too, as dey takes breakfast late. Old Peter has a long round, but he don't mind dat, so he gits de money. Den all de quality knows old Peter, and how de hats come off and de ladies smile when de New Year comes round again. Humph! Jingo! How stiff dis knee! When old Peter dead and gone, nebber find anodder carrier like him. Peter nebber stop for nuffin, de rain nor de shine, de northers nor de anything-umph! not even de rheumatiz." Here the old man cut short his soliloquy, stooping down to rub the afflicted member that so retarded his progress, and whose pain was an ever-present reminder that his agility and youth were gone forever. Erecting himself, he began again, "Dis bin a putty hard winter on mos' anybody, 'specially on de rheumatiz. But for de w'iskey bitters of de boss, old Peter wouldn't be as spry is he is. Boss says, 'W'iskey bitters mighty good for anything,' an' I believe him. Here it's Jinnivery, an' the winter mos' gone, an' the rheumatiz will work out of me by next winter, an' then I'll be as good as new again." By this time the old carrier stood over against the Citadel Square, and halting for a moment in his hobbling march, he looked right and left, backward and forward, and then said, "Guess I'll save a block in going to Vine street, by cutting through the Citadel Square-so I will. The gates are always locked at this hour, but I know where I can slip through under a loose plank, papers and all." So saying, he hobbled across the street, found the opening, and doubling himself up, went through it in a trice. Then trudging on, he bethought himself again of the sovereign remedy for all his ailments, "rheumatiz" especially, and he continued with evident delight:

"Next winter w'iskey bitters will be good too, and de boss will be shure to have 'nuff for us both. I 'spec' the boss teched wid de rheumatiz. I'll-Hallo! w'at's dat? Jes' git out ob my way, ole grunter. Dis ole Peter."

"Oh, God! help me! come here!" groaned a half audible voice. "Come to me! help me! help me!"

"O Lordy!" exclaimed old Peter as he jumped back in sudden fright. "Who's dat? What you want? W'at's de matter? I don't like spirits. You can't trick me. I'm the carrier ob de Courier dese five an' twenty year. What you want?"

"O Lord! help me! Come to me, Peter. I know you. I can do no harm. Come, I implore! Come quickly! Reassured by the faint, but importunate words, old Peter approached the dark object that lay upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of approaching day.

"Bend down close to me, Peter. I am dying. I am cold and faint, and wish to say a few words to you."

"Good God!" and the old negro shuddered as he bent down over the prostrate form before him.

"Don't you know me, Peter?"

Peter bent closer down.

"Mass' Mark Abrams, is dis you? What's de matter wid you? Who did it? Who killed you? Tell me; tell me for God's sake."

"Listen to me, Peter; listen. I am dying-shot in the breast with a pistol."

"Who did it? Who did it? For Heaven's sake, who did it?"

"No one, Peter; be calm; listen to me. It was accidental. I had in the inside pocket of my coat a small pistol. In passing through here about eleven o'clock, walking hastily homeward from Crispin's, I stumbled by some chance, and as I fell the pistol was discharged and has killed me. Here, take the pistol quick, and run for my father. Be quick, man, quick, that I may, if possible, say farewell. Take the pistol with you. I am not strong enough to reach it. Be quick."

Horrified, the old carrier groped on the ground for it, and accidentally dipped his hand into the pool of blood near the wounded man.

"The devil? I hate blood? Dis is bad, bad, bad! Mass' Mark! Mass' Mark!" No reply.

"Mass' Mark! I b'lieve he's dead. I feared so. Mass' Mark!" Still no reply.

"O Lordy! I'll get away from here. De poor child's dead, an' if I'm seen 'bout here dey may 'cuse me of murder. I can't go an' tell nuffin. Ole Peter's 'fraid. I must git away;" and gathering up his papers and the blanket again, he left the scene of the tragedy as rapidly as his disabled limbs would allow, feeling as if some fearful ghost were in close pursuit. Unconsciously, he carried the pistol with him, and was many squares away before he sufficiently collected his bewildered and terrified faculties, to observe the deadly weapon in his grasp. "What should he do with it?" at once flashed through his brain, and as the brightening daylight prevented his returning it to its place beside the victim, he resolved to keep it. He dared not cast it from him.

As old Peter was too much frightened to reveal the truth concerning the tragedy, he resolved at once to keep the secret forever within his own breast, and as he was guilty of no crime, he had no fears of the mystery being revealed. So he went on in the advancing morning, on his long, tedious round of duty, and no single reader that day missed the "Courier" or suspected the secret that lay hidden in the carrier's breast. A few hours after the columns of the "Courier" had been carefully scanned, on this January morning, an "Extra" flashed from the press, and flooded the Queen City with consternation and many hearts with woe and lamentation. It ran thus:

"Fearful tragedy! Mysterious assassination! Bridal day turned into a day of mourning and bitter disappointment!

"This morning at an early hour the body of young Mark Abrams was discovered, dead, and lying in a pool of blood near the centre of the Citadel Square. How he came to his death is still a mystery, but it was undoubtedly by the hand of an assassin. The most terrible fact connected with this sad calamity, is, that the day of the unfortunate man's death was to have been his wedding day. He was to have married the second daughter of Benjamin Mordecai, Esq., banker. His body has been removed to the house of his father, the worthy rabbi of Maple Street Synagogue. The burial will take place this afternoon, at the hour appointed for the wedding ceremony. Seldom has the Queen City been so shocked; and many heavy hearts will to-day join in the wail of woe that goes up from the stricken family."

Thus the bulletin ran, and surmise, consternation, and sorrow, were upon the lips of many men, women, and children in the Queen City.



CHAPTER XVII.



MELROSE, Lizzie Heartwell's home, was a manufacturing village in the northern part of a Southern State. A more picturesque or inviting spot is seldom found. It crowned the summit of one of a range of long, sloping hills, that stretched back from a river, as a diadem crowns the brow of a monarch. The snowy houses, nestled amid the clustering foliage, and the carefully trimmed hedge-rows, imparted to the place an English air of aristocratic seclusion. The clear silver river, too, which turned the spindles of the far-famed factories, encircled this romantic village as a mother the child of her love. These factories, that had been in successful operation for nearly a quarter of a century, gave employment to scores of honest, industrious people, that otherwise might have gone scantily clad and miserably fed, perhaps have perished.

Mr. Caleb Schuyler, the superintendent and proprietor of these factories, was a large-hearted New Englander, who had brought to this Southern State his native thrift and enterprise, and had spent a useful and comparatively long life in the work of building up and improving Melrose. Enough intelligence and wealth had gathered there to make the religious and educational advantages desirable, if not superior. The houses were all well kept and attractive, and Melrose was a charming place to live in, although remote from railways or steamboats.

In the eastern part of the village, where the winding road began its gentle descent to the river, stood a plain, but comfortable and commodious school-room. It was erected years ago for a "Yankee school teacher"; now it was occupied by Lizzie Heartwell, who had been a favorite scholar of that same teacher years before, when she was a very little girl. Consumption had long since laid that teacher to rest, and time had brought that fair-haired little girl to fill her place.

Over the bevy of factory-children, and those gathered from the wealthier families too, Lizzie Heartwell now presided with great dignity and grace, as school-mistress. In this sphere of life, her faculties of mind, soul, and body, found full scope for perfect development. Fond of children, loving study, happy always to help those desiring knowledge, glad to enlighten the ignorant, Lizzie Heartwell was happy, and useful too, in the work in which she was employed. It was now more than three years since Lizzie left Madam Truxton's, and she was now ending the second year of her teaching. It was September. The woods were dying earlier than usual, in the golden Indian summer. The days were sweet and delicious, and Melrose was as attractive in its autumn loveliness as it had been in the freshness of spring. It was toward the close of one of those charming September days, when Lizzie Heartwell stepped to the door of her school-room to watch the descending sun, and to see if she were detaining the children too long. Instantly her attention was arrested by the rumbling of the tri-weekly stage-coach, toiling up the hill before her. For a moment she stood watching its slow approach, apparently unmindful of the class that was already "in line" upon the floor, eagerly awaiting the last recitation, which would set them free. And yet the school-mistress gazed at the stage-coach, which had at last reached the top of the hill, and the horses, as if under new inspiration, were jogging along in a brisk trot, and were rapidly approaching the school-house. Suddenly the face of the young school-mistress grew pale, and then crimson, as she caught a glimpse of a face that leaned wearily beside the coach-door and looked out-a face not unfamiliar, and yet not well- remembered; a handsome, manly face, overshadowed by a military cap-and like a sudden flash came the thought that she had seen that face before. Regaining her self-possession, Lizzie turned from the door, examined the spelling-class as calmly as ever, commended all for their perfection in recitation, and with a blessing dismissed the eager little band for the day.

"Who was it?" she muttered, as she slowly donned the jaunty hat and her mantle, and mechanically drew on her kid gauntlets, preparatory to starting homeward. "I have seen that face before, I think, and yet I am not sure. Can it possibly be George Marshall?" she said slowly. "If so, time has changed him, yet only to improve, I think. How the thought of ever seeing George Marshall again startles me! But I am foolish, very foolish, to imagine such an absurd thing. Oh, no, he will never come to Melrose. I wish he would," and she began singing a low love-ditty half-unconsciously, half-fearfully, as she trudged homeward.

An hour later, and a perfumed billet-doux bore to the widow's cottage the compliments of Captain George H. Marshall, U. S. A. He had, indeed, come to Melrose at last.

Obtaining a limited leave of absence from the army, he had come home to visit his kindred, and his friend at Melrose. The time was necessarily short. Only one week could he spend at Melrose-one short seven days-days crowned with a golden halo in the after years. To the young school-mistress these were days bright with hope and happiness, bright as the effulgent sun that ushered them in, one by one. Days, too, that she parted with regretfully, as each one's sun went down. Six of these golden days were passed-passed in pleasant converse, in singing, in reading, in hoping, and the seventh was drawing nigh.

"Mr. Marshall," said Lizzie, on the evening of the sixth day, "will you leave Melrose without seeing my school, and telling me what you think of my avocation?"

"Certainly not, if you will allow me the pleasure, and to-morrow is the only time I have left," he replied.

"Well, then, come to-morrow if you like, and see me enthroned in my kingdom. My school opens at eight o'clock, for in this country we teach a long, honest day. Our people know nothing of the five-hour system," she replied merrily.

"Then, Miss Heartwell, if you will grant me the pleasure, I'll call early in the morning, and we'll stroll by the river-side. I must tell you further of my coming to Melrose, and then I'll see you in your field of labor. Will you grant me this last request?" the young man demanded nervously.

"I will, with pleasure," she replied. "I'll be ready by seven o'clock, and I'll show you the place where tradition says an Indian maiden jumped from the bluff into her lover's waiting skiff below, to elude her angry father's pursuit, and lost her life on the rocks."

"That was sad! 'Love's sacrifice' indeed, at a terrible cost!" replied the young man thoughtfully. "I trust I'll be more successful some day than the Indian lover was."

Lizzie trembled, and turning her eyes upon a vase of wild-flowers that adorned the simple table, replied confusedly, "Poor Wenona! hers was a sad fate."

"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, the stage-coach leaves. I can see you a while in the morning, can I? So I'll bid you good night," and George Marshall arose and extended his hand.

"Good night!" murmured Lizzie, with a sinking sensation at her heart, and a dimness of vision that almost betrayed tears.

Night passed, and morning came-bright, clear, fresh morning; and the young girl was awake with the dawn.

"Ah me!" she sighed, as she arranged the shining curls before her simple mirror, "this is the last day. I am almost sorry he ever came to Melrose. I was so interested in my school before; now, I fear I'll be always thinking of the army. Yes, I'll put on this blue ribbon-he likes blue, he admired the blue 'forget-me-not' I wore at Madam Truxton's the first night I ever met him. And these violets I'll pin on my bosom, they are blue too. I am a silly girl, I fear; and yet there is a strange aching at my heart. Can it be—Alas! I cannot speak it. Seven o'clock! He's coming! yes, he is here! I hear him on the step."

George Marshall looked pale and troubled, as he bade adieu to Mrs. Heartwell and stepped forth from her neat white cottage on this cool September morning, accompanied by the young school-mistress. His thoughtful face bore the impress of a sleepless night, and he was taciturn and abstracted. By his side Lizzie chatted away, as though bribed to dispel the gloom and silence that threatened to surround them-chatted as though no other feeling than gayety filled her own fearful heart-chatted till a curve in the white sandy road brought them in view of the river, and under a cluster of wide-spreading water-oaks that overshadowed a broken mass of stone.

"Miss Heartwell," said George abruptly, "sit here beside me, on these moss-covered rocks, before we go any farther, and let me tell you something I've kept unspoken long enough. Will you?"

Lizzie made no reply, but timidly followed where he led, and sat beside him on the lichen-covered stones. As George Marshall looked up, a tear stole from her true blue eyes, and moved by this evidence of emotion, he said with deep-toned pathos:

"Miss Heartwell, I love you, and you know it. If it were not a sin against the great God, I would say I adore you. May I not hope that those crystal tears betray the existence of a kindred love for me? Nothing but love, unalloyed and pure, love for yourself, ever brought me to Melrose. May I go away with the assurance that my love is returned, and bearing in my heart the hope to come again some day, and claim you as my wife? May I?"

The tears still flowed from the pure fountain of Lizzie's innocent, tender heart, and her head bowed as gently as a lily in the gale, but she answered firmly, sweetly, truly, "Yes, I love you too, and I promise, with God's blessing, one day to become your wife."

"Wipe away those tears then, and let me see, in the depth of your innocent eyes, that your promise is solemn and unchanging."

"As my soul is undying, I am in earnest; and as Heaven is true, I shall be faithful to your love. Never doubt me. Here, take these innocent flowers, modest children of the wild-wood-these violets, as a pledge of my unfeigned love;" and unclasping the golden brooch, she let the delicate flowers fall into the open hand of her lover.

Gathering up the offerings of affection, George Marshall clasped the slender hand that gave them, and imprinting a fervent kiss upon it, said, "God bless you, my darling, and take this as the seal of my benediction."

When the tri-weekly coach rolled out of Melrose on that charming autumn day, and passed the schoolhouse of the maiden, the sigh she cast after it was not without hope, and the one the lover wafted back breathed a promise to come again some day, not far off, and take her away from that school-room forever.



CHAPTER XVIII.



THE terrible tragedy that had filled so many hearts with consternation, the untimely and mysterious death of Mark Abrams, had long since been numbered with the events of the past. In the Hebrew burial ground, in a suburb of the Queen City, his mortal remains were at rest. Months ago, the grass had sprung, and the flowers of affection blossomed above his pulseless bosom. Upon the seventh day of every week since that dreadful January, the unhappy father and mother had turned their faces devoutly toward the city of their fathers, and offered their fervent prayers. Yet no abatement of sorrow had time brought to the mother's wounded, bleeding heart. Wearily, and often despairingly, she longed for that untried, unknown life beyond, where she dimly hoped for a reunion with her lost son.

Sarah Mordecai, young, thoughtless, volatile, in the death of her lover was disappointed, but not heartbroken. Recovering from the shock of her sorrow with the buoyancy and elasticity of youth, her repinings scarcely reached beyond the period that brought blossoms to the resting-place of the dead. Let no one censure this young heart that, by reason of its nature, could not sit enshrouded in gloom and sorrow, nor shudder at the thought that when the summer came, with warmth and brightness, she was as light of heart as the birds that carolled in the garden around her spacious home.

Not such the mourning of her disappointed mother. From day to day, since the failure of her cherished hope, regret and disappointment had rankled in her bosom with consuming force. She despised the fate that foiled her plans and purposes, and left the object of her hatred still uncrushed. Leah, with her beauty and unaffected grace, was again to be triumphed over. Again she might not be so successful. Rebecca was cold, cruel, and false-Leah fearful, dispirited, and miserable. Alas! poor Leah Mordecai. EMILE LE GRANDE'S DIARY.

"August 15.-So sure as my name is Emile, I believe I shall succeed in my endeavor to marry the Jewess. She is beautiful! She receives my attentions more kindly now than she ever did before, and she confesses that she loves me truly. That's 'half the battle.' She seems very unhappy at times, yet only once did she ever hint to me that her life was aught but a summer's day for brightness. I once thought she loved Mark Abrams, and I hated him for it; but that's of no use now. 'Dead men tell no tales.'

"August 20.-Whew! how mother did rave to-day when I intimated that I might possibly marry Leah Mordecai! She asked indignantly what I 'designed to do with Belle Upton, a girl of eminent respectability and an equal of the Le Grande family?' I mildly suggested that I could not love such a 'scrap of a woman as Belle Upton was; and if she was in love with me, it was without a cause.' I have paid her some attention, but only to please mother and Helen. She's too effeminate, if she is so very aristocratic-not half so handsome as 'ma belle Juive.' Oh! those dreamy eyes! They haunt me day and night. I believe I am sick with love!"

"August 30.-This has been a memorable month to me. Last night, in the starlight, as I walked home with Leah from the Battery, she promised to marry me; yes, actually to marry me! Said she was unhappy at home-I wonder why-and would marry me in self-defence, if from no other cause. A tear stood in her dark eyes as she said, with stern, hoarse voice, 'If you love me, Emile, truly love me, and will be faithful to me, I will forsake all others and marry you.' Then she made me swear it—swear it there, in the face of the blue heavens and the glittering stars. I tremble when I think of my parents' displeasure, but then I love the girl, and shall fulfil my vow, even unto death. In a month I shall be twenty-five years old, and before another birth-day rolls around, after this one, I shall be a married man-married to the girl I love, Leah Mordecai, the Jewess. I wonder what the world will say. But I don't care; love knows no barriers. When my plans are a little more defined, I shall mention the matter seriously to my father. Mother will not hear to it, I know. And then; if he is willing, all well; if he is not willing, all well still. I shall marry her."



CHAPTER XIX.



LEAH MORDECAI sat alone in the southern balcony of her father's house one night in this same memorable August, the events of which were so fully recorded in Emile's diary-sat alone enjoying the warm silver moonlight that flooded all the world about her-sat alone, thinking, dreaming, fearing, vaguely hoping. Suddenly the sound of her mother's voice reached her from an adjoining room, and arrested her attention. Involuntarily she listened. "Yes, dear husband, Leah is anxious to go-unhappy even, at the fear of being denied."

"You surprise me, Rebecca," replied the fond husband and father; "I never dreamed that Leah desired to visit Europe. She has never mentioned it to me."

"No, nor will she ever. She fears your displeasure, shrinks from betraying a desire to be separated from you, even for a short period of time; but still she longs to go. Ever since Bertha Levy went to Berlin, she has cherished a secret desire to go, too. You well know that music is the passion of her soul, and Leah longs for culture which she cannot obtain in this country."

"Dear child!" exclaimed the father, "she shall be gratified in her desires, and study in the fatherland as long as she chooses. She has always been a good, obedient, loving daughter, and deserves to be rewarded." Then he added, after a moment's pause, and with ill-concealed emotion, "Yes, my daughter is always obedient and kind, yet a shade too sober for one so young; but her mother was always thoughtful, dear woman, and I suppose it's the child's inheritance." Mr. Mordecai sighed. And Rebecca, discerning the drift of his thought, recurred quickly to the subject, saying:

"Well, my husband, what arrangement can you make for Leah's going? Of course you cannot accompany her."

"That's easily done," he replied. "Every week there are persons going direct to Europe from this very city; and, by the way, my friend Solomon Stettheimer expects to go soon to Wirtemberg, to look after an estate of a deceased relative, and I could safely intrust Leah to his care. I shall write at once to my cousin, the baron, and have her placed under his care."

"That's a wise plan, my husband, and will give Leah great joy. Make it known to her as though it was only a pleasant surprise you were offering her, not mentioning the fact that I acquainted you with her wishes."

"So I will, kind little heart, good little woman that you are," replied Mr. Mordecai affectionately, as he stroked Rebecca on the arm.

Leah heard no more. Shocked and terrified at this treacherous plotting, she stole softly from the balcony, passed through the side garden, entered the house by the rear door, and hastened away to her own chamber up stairs.

"Merciful Heaven! what a lie, to deprive me of my father's love, and send me from my home, among unknown friends, so far away! I cannot, cannot go; I cannot leave my father, even though it kill me to remain," gasped the young girl, in tears and bitterness of heart, as she sank helpless and hopeless upon the snowy bed that stood, a monster ghost, in the moonlit chamber. For hours she lay in silence and in sorrow, and when sleep came at length, the spoken words of her slumber but revealed the burden of her heavy heart in the oft-repeated words, "I cannot, cannot, will not go."



CHAPTER XX.



A WEEK passed. No word concerning the projected journey had been spoken by her father, and the young girl was beginning to hope that it might have been only the burden of an idle conversation, not a project really determined upon by either parent. But early one morning, as Mr. Mordecai caught the sound of music floating out from the drawing-room-such tender music-he laid aside the paper he was reading, and slipped softly toward the room whence came the sounds. This sudden and unusual manifestation of musical skill, this morning outburst of melody, astonished the father, and his approach to the drawing-room was as much from surprise as for the pleasure of a nearer enjoyment of his daughter's skilful performance. Unconscious of any approaching footstep, Leah sat, pale and statuesque, at the elegant instrument, and drew forth, at intervals, strains of witching melody. The absorbed expression of her emotionless face told plainly that music was the one channel through which the pent-up feelings of her heart found an outlet. How often is this divine art the unsyllabled expression of a miserable, or an overjoyed heart.

"My daughter," at length said Mr. Mordecai tenderly, after standing for some moments unobserved behind Leah.

"Is it you, father?" she replied, turning suddenly around, "I did not hear you come in."

"No, my love, I came softly that I might not disturb you; came to thank you for the sweet music that in this early morning sounds-so heavenly, I will say. Play me something else, as sweet and tender as the sonata you have just finished, and then come here and sit beside me; I have something to tell you."

"With all my heart, father," Leah replied, rising and turning through a mass of music. "Shall it be a song, father?"

"By all means, my dear."

And drawing forth the well-worn pages of Beethoven's "Adelaide," the young girl reseated herself, and sang.

The tender words of her father, as well as the ominous ones, "I have something to tell you," startled Leah, and caused the chords of love and fear to vibrate wildly within her bosom. Yet she concealed her deeper feelings, and sang-beautifully, bravely, sweetly-the tender, ravishing love-ditty which she knew was her father's favorite. The melody died away, the chords relaxed and hushed their sweetness, and Leah turned toward her father, awaiting the words of commendation that he always awarded to her performances. But he was silent. Seated upon a divan near by, Mr. Mordecai presented a striking appearance, which Leah at once observed. He was attired in his crimson morning-gown, adorned with golden bordering, and wore a becoming scarlet cap carelessly adjusted upon his head; a golden tassel hung from the cap beside the thoughtful face, and the half-snowy beard which spread like a silken fringe upon his bosom. His head was half-averted, and the sharp black eyes seemed to rest immovably upon some central figure on the luxurious tapestry. He was so absorbed that he heeded not the cessation of the music, nor was he aroused from his abstraction till Leah seated herself beside him and said:

"Now, father, I am ready to hear you."

"Forgive me, daughter, if I seem unmindful of your charming song; but thoughts for your welfare filled my reverie."

"What thoughts, father?" Leah asked fearfully.

"Well, listen to me. I have planned for you, my daughter, a most delightful and profitable journey. Assured that you possess musical talent of the highest order, I desire that talent to be most highly cultivated. The culture you need cannot be obtained in this country; so I have written to my cousin, Baron von Rosenberg, to have you become a member of his distinguished family for a time. Under his care and direction, your studies can be pursued to the greatest advantage. What do you think of the arrangement?"

As Mr. Mordecai was unfolding what he supposed would be a pleasant surprise to his daughter, he marked the serious, even pained expression of her face, and wondered at it.

Leah was silent. Then, with an air of surprise and disappointment, her father repeated the inquiry. "What do you think of my plan? You cannot possibly dislike it, my daughter!"

"Saxony is a great way off from you, dear father-I believe the baron lives in Saxony. I do not think I could be happy so far away from you, the only living human being who loves me truly in this cold world." The last words were spoken bitterly.

"Your words astonish me, my child; they savor of ingratitude, and are strange words for your lips. What can you mean?"

Leah trembled that so much had escaped her hitherto silent lips, betraying even faintly the true feeling of her heart; and repressing the words that would have followed had her father not offered his rebuke, she replied quickly:

"Forgive me, dear father, if I seem ungrateful; perhaps I do not appreciate the love I enjoy; but I do not wish to go so far away from you. And you will not send me, will you?"

"Never trouble about me, my daughter; go and stay a year, if no longer; that's a short period of time, when it is past. Go for the improvement you will get. Go and become distinguished, my child;" and the ambitious parent's eye kindled with a new light at the thought.

Leah made no reply, and the father, releasing the delicate hand he had so tenderly held, said again and again, "Never mind me, child, never mind me; a year's a short time. Go and become distinguished."

The banker went to his counting-house that day, elated with the project for his daughter's pleasure and improvement, little dreaming where, or for what purpose, this plan was conceived; and Leah spent its lonely hours in sorrow and in tears.



CHAPTER XXI.



LE GRANDE'S DIARY.

"October 3.

"I HAVE been in such a maze of suspense and bewilderment for a month, dear Journal, that I have neglected you; to-night I'll recall, if I can, some of my lost days. No, I can't. It makes no diference; they were only days of trouble. I am perplexed to death to know the result of the baron's letter. He wrote, of course, and urged that Mr. Mordecai send Leah at once to him. And the preparations are going rapidly forward for her departure. Every day I say, 'Darling, stay with me,' and her father says, 'Daughter, you must go.' 'We shall see, in the end, what the end will be.'

"October 15.-To-night, dear Journal, I make the most triumphant record of my life. Tell it not, breathe it not, to a mortal soul! Leah, my darling, has promised to marry me, and not go to Europe, as her father had determined. She told me last night, when I met her in the park, that her mind was made up. She would not go. She did not wish to go, and to marry me was her only alternative. She loves me, though, and we shall be happy, I am sure. My parents are bitterly opposed, and hers will be, to such a union, but we will be married, for all that. Helen alone is in my confidence; she has none of that pride that revolts at Leah's being a Jewess. To-morrow I leave for Havana, where I go with papers from our banking house to a branch house in that city. If I am successful in making my business arrangements, as I feel assured I shall be, then all will be well. I can only remain two days, as the day for Leah's embarkation is not a fortnight off. My mother and father know nothing of the business that takes me away, yet I have not deceived them. But, Journal, good night.

"October 28.-Home again from Havana-home with bounding heart and glowing hopes. I admire that fine City of the Antilles almost as much as I do my beloved, native Queen City. I shall enjoy my new home, I know. How could I do else than enjoy it? With a satisfactory salary in our branch house, and a lovely young wife, a heathen might well be happy. Now, old Mordecai can keep his gold, if he likes, and ny father can do the same. The opposition has driven me to rely more implicitly upon myself, thank the fates. I shall be able to 'paddle my own canoe.' Leah looks something like those Spanish beauties, only she's a trifle sadder in expression. I trust she'll be happy in her new home, amid Cuban bloom and under azure skies. Heaven grant her an unclouded life. I am delirious with joy; and for fear of committing too much to your keeping, Journal, I'll stop writing. Adieu."



CHAPTER XXII.



"AUNT BARBARA," said Leah, the day before the proposed departure of the vessel that was to bear her away, "will you tell Mingo to leave the key of the lodge hanging just inside the inner door to-night. I may be coming in, or going out late, and he need not be disturbed, if he will do that." These words were addressed to a middle-aged colored woman, who, with high-turbaned head, moved busily about Leah's apartment, folding garments and packing trunks, and sighing, ever and anon, as though enduring heart-felt grief at the prospect of the approaching parting.

"Yes, dear chile, I'll tell him, if you wish. Dere is not many more times for your dear feet to pass in and out of de lodge;" and accompanying these simple, pathetic words was an outburst of honest tears, that fell upon the tidy white apron which the kind soul held to her eyes.

"Will you miss me, Aunt Barbara, when I am gone?" said Leah, deeply moved by the old colored woman's manifestation of sorrow.

"Law, chile, God only knows how ole Aunt Barbara will miss you. But I'll pray de good Lord to keep you safe from harm, when you are so far away, and bring you back to us again, one day."

"Suppose I never come back, Aunt Barbara; will you ever forget me?"

The old woman made no reply, but her ponderous frame shook convulsively, with excessive emotion. Leah then approached this faithful friend, and laying her arm around her neck, said tenderly, "Don't cry so, Aunt Barbara, but cheer me with the hope that some day I'll come back to you." The sound of approaching footsteps in the hall dried Aunt Barbara's tears, and when she opened the door in response to a gentle tap, her face was as placid as a summer lake.

"Is it you, father? Come in," said Leah, looking up to meet her father's eye.

"Yes, my daughter. Are you ready? Are the trunks packed? Can I do anything more for you?" replied Mr. Mordecai, almost in one breath.

"Nearly ready, father. Aunt Barbara has about finished the last one, and I am ready to leave you."

These words, so full of feeling, so sorrowfully spoken, too, struck deep into the father's heart, and filled him with unspeakable regret.

"Ready to leave me, daughter," he reiterated, half petulantly, "I fear that you do not appreciate, or rather that you misinterpret my motive in sending you on so grand a journey. How many girls there are who vainly wish, from day to day, for such advantages as I am offering you!"

To these words Leah made no reply. And Mr. Mordecai, walking backward and forward with restless step across his daughter's bed-chamber, secretly regretted that he had ever considered the project for a moment. Then he said, half apologetically, "You shall only stay a year, my daughter; that is not such a very long time."

"Maybe I shall never come back, father. But you will love me always, won't you?"

"Hush! hush! child. I do not like your words. They distress me! A year is a short time, you know; so don't be foolish. Come, braid up your hair, arrange your dress, and come down at once into the drawing-room. I must have some music to-night."

"With pleasure, dear father," answered Leah, as cheerfully as the swelling emotion at her heart would allow. Then, in an undertone to herself, she added, "It may be the last time I shall have the privilege of playing for him in my life. If I were to go to Europe, that wretched woman would devise some plan to keep me there, and so I'll stay with—" the last word she uttered was spoken in a whisper, and scarce escaped her lips. Hastily obeying her father's summous, after arranging a becoming toilet, Leah descended to the drawing-room, where Mr. Mordecai awaited her. "Father," said Leah abruptly, as she was turning to her music, "to-day, in looking over a package of papers, I came across the cards of cousin Hannah Stuyvesant; I had not thought of her for ever so long. Who was it she married?"

"Oh! A Christian dog! A renegade. Somebody named Bliss, I believe."

"Did they prosper, father?"

"I'll venture to say not, but I do not know positively. I've known nothing of her since she so far renounced her people as to marry a Christian. Neither have I desired to know anything of her."

At these words of Mr. Mordecai-significant words-Leah stationed herself at the instrument, and, with mind absorbed, and thoughts far away from the music, she performed mechanically piece after piece, as her father would request. The tea-bell at last summoned the family to the evening meal, and encircling his daughter with his arm, Mr. Mordecai led the way to the waiting repast. This was the last evening meal of the banker's family, unbroken. Yet who could have said so on that memorable evening in the long ago?



CHAPTER XXIII.



NIGHT gathered around the Queen City with dark and sombre fold, after the chilly October day previous to the one appointed for Leah Mordecai's departure for Europe-a night whose ominous gloom seemed to pervade the innermost apartment of the banker's home. It was late before Mr. Mordecai could spare his daughter from his presence, and give the good-night kiss, his usual benediction before they separated for slumber. Even the wily Rebecca said good night now in a tender tone, and gave Leah a gracious smile as she ascended the stairs for the last time. "It is the last," thought she, "for many a long day, maybe forever, and I can smile in sincerity. Once gone, I'll see to it that she never comes again. Aha! I am happy now, and can smile in joy and truth."

Once more within her quiet chamber, Leah locked the door and stood a moment with frightened face gazing furtively around the room. All was silent. The beating of her own wild heart was all the sound she heard. Then sinking down from actual weakness, she sat a moment as if summoning the last spark of courage in her timid, fearful soul and said, "Yes, it is a dreadful alternative, but I am driven to it. If I obey my father, and go to Europe, I know I shall not return for many years, if ever. If I am to be separated from my father, it shall not be by that woman's scheming. She has devised this plan to send me from my home, and she shall be disappointed. I am assured that Emile loves me, yet I should never have married him had I not been forced to do so-simply because he is not a Jew. But as it is, I take the step deliberately, firmly resolved to abide the consequences, be they good or evil. Yes, I am resolved to take this first step in disobedience to my father's wishes. I cannot help it. It has caused me terrible suffering to reach this decision, but circumstances press me to it. Now, it is irrevocable. God forgive me, if I cause my father sorrow! He knows how I love and serve him, and Heaven knows how cruelly I have been dealt with. But time is passing. I must write a last, fond letter to my dear Lizzie; tell her of this final, desperate step in my life, and beg that her love, so long tried, may follow me still through the untried life that lies before me, be it a life of sunshine or of shadow.

"Oh! the thought is dreadful. Let me see. Now the hour is eleven. Emile will come at twelve. I must hasten;" and rising from her recumbent posture, Leah replaced the watch within her bosom, and seating herself at the escritoire, wrote a last, loving letter to the friend of her school-days. This she dropped into her pocket, that she might post it at the lodge. Then she wrote, with trembling hand and faltering heart, a farewell message to her beloved father; and she was done. In a small portmanteau she had carefully packed the few things requisite for her clandestine journey. The well-filled trunks were safely locked, and the keys hanging idly upon the ring in her work-basket. "These trunks," she murmured to herself, as she glanced around the room preparatory to leaving it, "will descend to my sister, or go to Europe, or, maybe, will be destroyed. I shall never use their contents. Dear Aunt Barbara's careful packing was all to no purpose, had she only known it. Kind Aunt Barbara! Now, one thing more remains to be done. I must have my mother's miniature before I quit my father's house, perhaps forever. Aunt Barbara has secured the key of the cabinet for me, and it lies secreted in one of the drawers. Yes, Rebecca has kept it from me for nearly five years. How I burn with anger yet, to think of the cruel lie that took from me the only gift I ever valued in my life! That perfidious bosom shall never feel the pressure of that precious, jewelled face again. No, in heaven's name, I will not leave without it!"

"Hush! the citadel clock strikes the quarter to twelve! Dear old room! Chair, bed, books, pictures-all, farewell!"

The house below was silent. The lights had been darkened for an hour. With stealthy step along the upper hall, and silent footfall on the stairway, the cloaked and hooded figure of Leah approached the sleeping apartment of her father and his wife. The sound of heavy breathing betokened heavy slumber, as she silently turned the door-knob and stood within the chamber. Reassured by this sound, she glided toward the cabinet, and noiselessly adjusting the key, turned it gently in the lock. The white, delicate finger stole softly about the first smoothly polished drawer, to find it empty. Then one and another underwent, in quick succession, the same noiseless inspection, till the fourth and last drawer was reached; and that one yielded up the coveted treasure. Hastily placing it in her bosom, she closed the drawer, and then glided out as softly as she had glided into the room. On the threshold she cast back one fond, lingering look at the dimly outlined figure of her father, as he lay before her in unconscious slumber. "Heaven ever shield him," she whispered softly; and passed on-on and out beyond the heavily-bolted front door-out forever! In the starlight, chill and faint, she found herself, with trembling limbs and trembling heart, and for a moment sat down on the cold stone step to rally her failing strength and courage before she sought the lodge. At the sound of approaching wheels she arose, and walked with rapid step to the lodge, reaching it just as a coach drew up before it.

"Is it you, Emile?" said Leah softly, as the lodge door opened and a manly form appeared.

"Yes, darling. Thank fortune, your courage has not failed you. I have been feverish with anxiety and impatience for hours. Are you ready, dear?"

At these words Leah trembled, and faltered "Yes."

"Well, I thought it best to bring the minister with me, and so my friend Bishop Leveret is in the carriage. Suppose we have the ceremony performed here; then there can be no possible disappointment or danger. Are you afraid?"

"What have I to fear now, when I have gone so far? I abide now by your wishes in all matters, henceforth and forever. I am ready."

In a moment the bishop was summoned. By the light of a dimly burning lantern, he drew forth the Prayer Book, and read the impressive marriage ceremony of his church. The responses were solemnly uttered, the benediction invoked, and at that midnight hour, in the stillness of the porter's lodge, Emile Le Grande and the young Jewess were pronounced "man and wife." Driving quickly to the vessel that was ready to depart for the tropical port with the first appearance of the morning sun, Emile soon safely ensconced his bride in the comfortable cabin, and with a feeling of joy, tinged only with a shadowy apprehension, he bade adieu to the kind bishop, who had accompanied them thither.

As the morning sun rose, bright and ruddy, from its eastern bed, the vessel's gun, giving the signal for departing, sounded beyond the foaming bar, and the newly wedded lovers were adrift, alike upon the ocean of life and upon the blue expanse that surrounded them-adrift to suffer a dismal shipwreck, or to anchor safely within some remote harbor of love and security.



CHAPTER XXIV.



ANXIOUS and nervous from the expected sorrow of the coming day, Mr. Mordecai rose early from his couch of restless slumber. Restlessly he walked the library floor backward and forward, awaiting the appearance of his daughter Leah. At length he said to his wife, as she summoned him to the morning meal, "It's very late. I wonder why Leah does not come down. I'll just step to her room, and see if she is ready; fatigue and anxiety may have caused her to sleep later than usual this morning. I'll join you in the breakfast-room in a moment."

After a moment had elapsed, Mr. Mordecai stood gently tapping at his daughter's chamber door. There was no response. He gently opened it. The room was vacant. Not a sound or a voice greeted his entrance. Stiff and well-arranged, the elegant furniture stood mutely against the cold, cheerless walls. The ominous tidiness of the deserted bed-chamber bespoke a fearful story. The father stood for a moment in amazement, silently surveying the apartment, his heart half trembling with a vague fear; then he said, in a hoarse, frightened tone, "Leah, my daughter, where are you?" There came no reply, but the faint echo of his whispered words, "Where are you?"

Stepping forward softly into the room, he paused again, and then with slow, uncertain step approached the casement that looked out upon the front garden. There was nothing without but the sunshine and the breeze, and the passing crowd already beginning to throng the streets. Again he turned, with anxious heart, away from the crowd without, to the deserted room within. "Where's my daughter? Leah, dear Leah, where are you?" A folded scrap of paper upon the escritoire caught his eye, and springing forward he seized it, half hopefully, half fearfully, and tremblingly unfolded it. These are the words it contained:

"OWN DEAREST FATHER: Can you, will you ever forgive your disobedient Leah? I shudder when I think of you, reading these lines in the morning, when I shall be far away from your loving embrace! But, dear father, you know I did not desire to go to Saxony, so far away from you; fearing, yes, even knowing that circumstances would arise to prevent my return. I cannot explain my meaning, dear father, for fear of imperilling your happiness. I prefer to live on, as I have done for years, with the secret of my sorrow-the secret that impels me to this act of disobedience-hidden in my heart. I fear your wrath, and yet, dear father, I cannot go. I prefer to remain and marry the one whom, next to yourself, I love above all mankind-Emile Le Grande. Yes, dear father, when your eyes peruse these lines, I shall be his wife, and far away on my journey to our distant home. He loves me, and I love him, yet more than once have I refused his love, in deference to your teachings, that 'to deny my people and my faith, by marriage with a Christian, was worse than death, and an everlasting disgrace.' Can I hope, then, for your forgiveness, even though I seek it on bended knees, dear father? Had I been allowed to remain at home, I never should have married him, certainly not in the clandestine manner I propose. I flee to the love and protection of Emile, as an alternative to a dreadful fate. Oh! pity and forgive me, father; love me, even though I bring sorrow to your tender, loving heart. In my new home, I shall watch and wait for some tidings, some missive like a white-winged dove, bearing me a single word of love and remembrance from my beloved father. If it comes not, alas! ah me! you may always know there's a sorrow in my heart that no amount of happiness or prosperity can ever eradicate-a darkness that no sunshine can ever dispel.

"And now again, and lastly, my father, I pray that the blessing of the great God of Israel may ever rest upon your venerable head; and will you not, too, invoke His blessing to descend upon the head of your unworthy and unhappy child? Dear, dear, precious father, now adieu, a long tearful adieu, till I receive your blessing. "Sorrowfully, your own "LEAH."

Stupefied and amazed, Mr. Mordecai scarcely realized the import of the words that his flashing eye devoured, till the familiar signature was reached. Then, as if a flood of light had burst upon his blinded vision, came the dreadful revelation; involuntarily he exclaimed, "Eternal God! It cannot be! It is not possible, that my child has fled from me! Gone with a Christian dog, to become his wife; seduced by his honeyed words from the embrace of my love to that of his faithless heart! Torn from my home to follow the wanderings of a villain! Oh, God! Oh, heaven! It cannot be! It must not be! I swear, by Israel, it shall not be! Oh my child! my daughter, my own precious Leah? Where art thou? Where hast thou fled, my daughter?"

In frenzy Mr. Mordecai smote his breast, tore his silvery locks, and bowed in grief as the fatal letter fell from his trembling hand. The depths of his sorrow were stirred, and the tears that flowed from his burning heart left the fountain dry and shrivelled. Then, as the calm succeeds the storm, so, when this fierce tempest of emotion was passed, Mr. Mordecai regathered his strength, summoned the forces of his pride, revenge, and hatred, dispelled all traces of his sorrow, steeled himself for the duty before him, and with a heart of stone in a bosom of adamant, took up the letter and descended the stairs to the waiting family below. Untasted before them was the morning meal. With wild look and emphatic step Mr. Mordecai entered the breakfast-room, and stood before the family holding the letter aloft in his trembling hand. "See here," said he, with a ringing voice, "read here the story of a child, that sought to break an aged father's heart. But hear me first. Hear this my oath. This heart shall not break, I swear it shall not! Leah has gone-fled with a Christian dog, to become his wife. Read it for yourselves when I am gone; but hear me, you that remain. Sarah and Frederick. My blessing shall never rest upon her, living or dying. As she has chosen to bring sorrow upon the gray hairs of her father, so may God rain trouble upon her disobedient head. May her children wander, uncircumcised dogs, friendless, and neglected-as she has neglected me-upon the face of the earth, ever seeking bread, yet feeling constant hunger! Despised of her people, and rejected of her people's God, may she ever feel the need of a friend, and yet find none! Her disobedience is cursed forever, so I swear it by the God of Israel! Mark my words, and remember my wrath!" he concluded, looking fiercely into the eyes of the two children who sat silent before him. "Read this for yourselves; and then burn it, and scatter the ashes to the winds." No one made reply to that outburst of implacable, burning rage, that so consumed the father's heart. They had never seen him in such a frenzy before. Mr. Mordecai then hurriedly left the house, and passing Mingo, at the porter's lodge, went out without a nod of recognition. Urbanely bowing and smiling, Mingo let his master pass, wondering at this singular breach of his accustomed politeness.

As the lodge door closed after Mr. Mordecai had passed out, Mingo bethought him of something, and hastily pursuing his master, said:

"Here, master, is this your yourn?"

"What?" asked the master morosely.

"This book, sir; I found it in the lodge."

Mechanically, Mr. Mordecai took it from the servant, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat, and then passed on without a word. In the house, all were startled, all dismayed, at the disclosure in the letter; all, save Rebecca, were filled with sadness. She felt no regret. The brother and sister moved silently and sorrowfully about the house, and in and out of the vacated chamber, hardly realizing that their gentle sister had indeed gone.



CHAPTER XXV.



MR. MORDECAI had scarcely passed a square from his home, when suddenly he retraced his steps, and stood again before the lodge.

"Mingo," he said sharply, "tell your mistress to send me that cursed letter. Be quick."

With a dash the nimble slave obeyed the command, and in a moment stood before his master, the letter in his hand, bowing and smiling with his usual politeness.

Taking the letter, Mr. Mordecai crushed it in his hand, then placed it in his breast pocket, as he again started forward toward his banking-house. If he passed man, woman, child, friend, acquaintance, or kinsman in that morning's walk, he knew it not; for the tumult of passion that stirred his soul obliterated for the time every recollection but that of the terrible sorrow that had befallen him. In due time he reached the dingy brown banking-house, and stood irresolutely for a moment upon the well-worn stone steps. He placed the ponderous key within the lock, but the hand seemed powerless to turn its massive bolt; and for a moment he stood with thoughtful, determined eye resting upon the pavement. A moment more, and then he quickly withdrew the key, dropped it into his pocket, and briskly retraced his steps for square after square, and then abruptly turned into the well-known street where stood the office of the distinguished Le Grande.

It happened that Mr. Mordecai approached the office from one direction, as Judge Le Grande himself approached it from another, riding in the light single phaeton in which he usually drove to and from his office.

"Good-morning, Mr. Mordecai. How goes it with you, my friend, this fine morning?" said the judge pleasantly, as he alighted and threw the lines to Cato, the driver.—"Tell your mistress she need not send for me till five o'clock. I shall be very busy to-day." Then turning to the banker he looked for a reply.

"It's no good-morning to me," replied the banker fiercely. "The night has brought devilish work to my home."

"What do you mean, my friend?" was the judge's quiet reply. "What has the night done?"

"Played the devil! Don't you try to trifle with my sorrow. That son of yours has already wrought me injury enough. Don't you attempt to mock me. I warn you, Le Grande, I warn you!"

Astonished by these mysterious words of the Hebrew, Judge Le Grande gravely assured Mr. Mordecai that he knew nothing of the trouble that had befallen him, and repeatedly asked, "What has my son done?"

"Done? Alas! he has done that which would to God I could undo!" was the reply, uttered angrily and savagely. "But as I cannot undo it, I shall curse it-curse it from the depths of my soul! He has married my daughter? Stolen her-taken her away in secret from my house, and they have wisely fled from my presence!"

"Married your daughter!" ejaculated the judge, the truth faintly dawning on him. "Surely that's a mistake."

"Indeed it is a wild mistake; I would to God it were otherwise."

"By what authority do you make this assertion?" continued Judge Le Grande, evidently aroused by the dawning truth.

"By the confession of my daughter, left in her room, and written a short time before her flight."

"Where is that confession? Let me see it."

"Here," replied the banker, drawing the crumpled missive from his pocket. "There, read the mischief for yourself."

With trembling hand Judge Le Grande smoothed out the crushed paper, and eagerly, fearfully, scanned the contents that were to crush his hopes, as they had crushed those of the banker. Silently, carefully, he read it, read it till the story was told, and then, brushing away a tear from his eye he said, with emotion:

"Mordecai, forgive her! Forgive her, as I shall forgive him; and now that it is done, let us make the best of it."

"Forgive!" hissed the banker; "forgive such an act of disobedience as that? Such disgrace to my name and people? Never, while there is a drop of Hebrew blood in Benjamin Mordecai's veins, will I forgive it!"

"It's no more a disgrace to your name and people than it is to mine; but I consider that people are fools, who make disgrace of family troubles, by obstinately parading them before the world."

"Then I shall delight in being a fool, if so you deem it," replied Mr. Mordecai, with kindling emotion.

"Alas! I had great plans for Emile," said Judge Le Grande sadly, as he turned away from Mr. Mordecai; "and his mother too; she had fondly hoped he would marry Belle Upton. Now, all is disappointment. I do not know how she will bear it. As for myself, I shall make the best of it. I hope they may be happy.-I say, Mordecai," looking steadily at the banker, "they have my forgiveness and my blessing too. You may do as you please."

"Well, I curse them," the banker answered bitterly; "and I swear they shall never see my face again, living or dying. Not one dollar from my purse shall they ever receive, even though want and beggary come upon them. Think not I can ever change, Judge Le Grande. As my people and my people's God, the Eternal Father, are unchangeable, so is my purpose concerning these disobedient children. Good morning." Mr. Mordecai then turned slowly from the office, and as the judge beheld the receding form, and remembered the fierce flash of his dark eye, he unhesitatingly exclaimed, "Poor old man! I pity you. And," he added after a moment's pause, "Heaven pity us both!"

As a bird floats safely upon the bosom of the blue sky and finds at last her leafy home, so the little vessel that bore the fugitive lovers, found safe and speedy anchorage in the quiet harbor of the sea-girt isle that was to be their future home. The young, ardent husband, and the fair, gentle wife, gazed with delight upon the cloudless skies and bright waters, and thought hopefully of the future. Only one shadow darkened their horizon. It was a fearful thought, to Leah, that her father's anathema might ever rest upon her. But the future was veiled, and the voice of Hope whispered, "his blessing may come by and by. Wait."



CHAPTER XXVI.



TWO years rolled away-two short, bright years of individual and national prosperity, and then came a change. To use the words of the immortal Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way." These utterances of inspiration so fittingly describing the period that ushered in the bloody French Revolution, may be applied with equal truth and force to the years that inaugurated the war between the States in fair America.

Did not prosperity bud and blossom in every vale and hamlet of this fair domain? And yet were a people ever more unmindful of, or more ungrateful for their blessings? Bickering and strife, dissension and hatred, grew fiercer with the growth of the nation's grandeur. Slavery, on one hand said, "I will," and Freedom, on the other, "You shall not." So the war-cloud, "the size of a man's hand" only at first, appeared upon the dim horizon of the future. Wisdom sought to devise plans for averting war, but Folly shook her locks tauntingly, and said mockingly, "Ha! ha! War is pleasant pastime." So the culmination was reached, and a misguided people, clamorous for war, sounded the tocsin that caused rivers of blood to flow from brothers' hearts, and enshrouded a grand and happy people in desolation and disgrace.