At the time when the war-cloud of fratricidal conflict was rolling dark and broad over the land, a treacherous enemy on the border were menacing and even destroying many of our country's peaceful citizens. Upon the broad frontier at the Far West it became the duty of the government to hold these wily foes in check by a strong and reliable armed force. To this north-western outpost of service Captain Marshall had been ordered by the voice of his country. Not ordered there as to a holiday excursion, but ordered into actual bloody conflict, and to an ordeal that would have tried the bravery and courage of a veteran. At the head of his command, Company A, 3d Regiment U. S. Regulars, Captain Marshall reached this post of danger in the hour of its most imminent peril. But for this timely arrival of troops, the peaceful little town of Minneopoli might have been laid waste, and its defenceless inhabitants cruelly butchered or carried away captive. But the premeditated destruction of the town was averted, the treacherous "red-skins" disappointed, and Captain Marshall's bravery demonstrated beyond a peradventure.

It was the night after the attack of the Indians, and the bloody repulse. All was quiet. The troops were reassembled in camp. The usual garrulity of the soldiers was checked by the recollection of their dead comrades, so recently laid to rest in soldiers' graves. All, too, remembered the danger through which they had passed, and many were moody and silent. At length a bright-faced, light-headed young recruit spoke out, seeing the silence and sadness around the camp-fire. "I say, captain, that was a wretched red-skin of a chief that you hauled in yesterday. He looked more like the Prince of Darkness than the chief of a tribe. I thought once, cap'n, he had you; and I was just ready to pick him off, when I saw you were safe."

"Yes, Carlos, that was a close place, and but for a kind fate, I should be sleeping with those brave fellows who have left us. Peace to their resting-places."

"I was sorry you did not kill him; he deserved death. But how quick he did surrender, when he saw you close in on him with your sword! Ha! ha!"

"Yes, Mico is a bad, bad Indian, and has caused more trouble to this settlement than all the other Indians combined. I guess he will enjoy his freedom, when he gets it again. Confinement and chains are worse than death to him."

"I tell you, cap'n, they are cowardly devils. They can't stand gunpowder. At the very smell of it they run out from their hiding-places, like so many rats from a burning building. I hated to see one of them taken alive. It's not like fighting civilized people; is it, cap'n? I am in favor of the black flag in a fight with these red devils."

"War is war, Carlos, and brutalizes the most intelligent people on earth, if they indulge in it. I trust our troubles are ended here, for a long time, if not forever, now that Mico is our prisoner. At any rate, I hope all will remain peaceful and tranquil till I go home and return. For a month I have a leave of absence, to visit my native State."

"Going home, captain, to see your mother?" spoke up a fair-haired young boy, scarcely eighteen, who had sat a silent listener to the conversation between Carlos and his commander.

"Ah! Franco, I have no mother; she died long ago," replied the captain; "but I am going back to my native State. My father and a brother and sister live there."

"It has been many a long day," said Franco, "since I saw my native hills, and heard my mother's gentle voice, as she went singing about our humble home. I often wonder how she could sing so, with so much poverty and care constantly about her. Maybe I shall never see her again ;" and a shade of sorrow crept over the fair young face of the French recruit.

The captain replied, "I trust that you may, Franco, though you are now so many leagues away. What brought you away from her, Franco?"

"Poverty, captain, poverty; and unless I can lighten the burden of my mother's life by returning, I shall never go back!"

Silence at length settled upon the camp, and one by one the groups of comrades disbanded. The campfires were extinguished, and at an early hour sleep tenderly enfolded these guardians of their country's peace and security.



CHAPTER XXVII.



THE spring had come again, and a little more than its first month had elapsed when, early one morning, as the sun was stealing up softly from the east, and before it had brought the hour for the slumbering troops to be aroused by another rveille, or had gilded the hills and valleys with its light, Captain Marshall, accompanied by his faithful orderly, Franco, entered the half-slumbering town of Minneopoli and turned toward the inn, whence the coach was soon to leave for the nearest railway station.

"Lieutenant Styles will be in command, Franco, till I return, you know, and I fear he will form a dangerous substitute, with his affable nature," said the captain, as the hour of parting drew near.

"Well, never mind that, captain; no matter how affable, we boys do not wish a new commander just now," returned the true-hearted boy.

"Take care of your scalps, Franco. Don't let the 'red-skins' surprise you while I am gone. There, I see the coach is ready. I must soon bid you adieu."

"If I remember the bravery of my captain, the red devils won't get my scalp, I'll wager. But I hope they are settled for a time. Come back as soon as you can, captain, and in your absence think occasionally of Franco, will you? There comes the coach. The horses are fine and gay."

"Rest assured, Franco, I will think of you, and often too. How I would like to take you with me! But take care of yourself. A month's absence is not such a long time, after all. Good-by, my dear fellow, good-by;" and seating himself in the waiting coach, Captain Marshall waved an adieu to his sorrowful young companion, and at the same moment the coach driver hallooed, "All ready!" and gave a sharp crack of the whip; the horses dashed forward, and recruit and captain were soon separated-separated forever. In less time than a fortnight, Captain Marshall had accomplished his long and troublesome journey, and was safe once more within his native State.

"I tell you, Fred," said the captain, one day when he was visiting a friend in the Queen City, "the agitated, portentous state of affairs in this section distresses and alarms me. I had no dream of the warlike aspect of this quiet Queen City of the Sea. I fancied we had all the trouble with us, in the north-west, among those wretched savages. I came home for a month of recreation and pleasure, and—" he uttered with slight hesitation—"for the fulfilment of my plighted troth; for the realization of the bright dream of a love that has brightened my heart for nearly two years. Yes, Fred, and if it were not for the business that takes me to fair Melrose, I should regret that my coming home had been just at this time. I tell you, my good fellow, the future portends evil, if not bloodshed."

"Well, Marshall, bloodshed is inevitable, unless as a section we are allowed our constitutional rights; and I, for one, say, if it must, let it come, even with the fury of a storm. I am for State rights, and the Palmetto State forever!"

"Not bloodshed, Fred, if we can avert it," replied the young officer to the enthusiastic outburst of the impetuous young Pinckney, the beloved friend of his boyhood. "I am just from the gory field, where I saw my brave men fall beneath the treacherous blows of the Indians. I have seen bloodshed, and desire to see no more of it. I have always loved military life, you know, Fred; but I tell you it tries the heart of a man to see his men shot down like dogs."

"Oh, yes; you are for the Union, I see," replied young Pinckney with impatient gesture. "Your service in the regular army has weaned your heart from your native State, I fear."

"Oh! yes; I am for the Union just now-the union of hearts, at least; and as you go with me to Melrose, you shall see that the union is maintained."

"O bother! Marshall; you can think of nothing now but matrimony. I am for the union of hearts myself; but the union of States as it has existed, I detest. Peaceable secession, you see, we cannot have; and if it must come in bloodshed, why, in the name of mankind, let it come! I am ready for the issue of my State's action."

"I pray your blood may never be required as the price of forcible secession, my dear Fred. But the condition of the country appals me! I-whom duty calls to one place, and whom ties of affection bind to another-I am placed in no enviable position. Yet I still hope the trouble will soon clear up, and all will yet be bright."

"Your duty is plain before you, Marshall. It's for or against us now, and no equivocation."

"Well, we'll not fall out about our country's troubles. They may be better and they may be worse than we anticipate. I'll hope for the best, though evil come. Let's talk of Melrose, and the fair flower that blooms there. Eh, Fred?"

Fred replied smiling, "So we will, dear boy; here, take this cigar. Let's have a smoke, and if you like we'll stroll down to the Battery and see the encampment."



CHAPTER XXVIII.



THE rosy month of May succeeded the chilly April in that memorable year when the war-cloud of civil contest overshadowed the land so darkly. It came with unwonted verdure, freshness, and beauty, filling the hearts of the despondent with hope, and the hopeful with rejoicing. It was scarcely a month from the time the coach dashed out of the half-aroused town of Minneopoli in the chilly April morning, when a similar vehicle, one evening, toiled slowly up the long hill whose summit was crowned by picturesque Melrose. Among the passengers were Captain Marshall and his friend Fred Pinckney. The former had come to Melrose to claim the hand of his affianced, Eliza Heartwell, and to take her away as his wife. In that sweet May-time, no heart was happier than George Marshall's, and no voice gladder, as it rang out in unrestrained laughter at the droll jokes and facetious comments of his witty friend Fred.

"I say, George, this is undoubtedly the beautifulest country I ever saw. Do see. Such honeysuckles and such dog-wood blossoms never grew before. Maybe if the fates are propitious, I'll come back here to this picturesque country to get me a wife, after the war is over. Who knows? Then I'll be a laurel-crowned hero, having whaled out the Yankees to a frizzle, and all the fair ones will be sighing for my hand and heart! Umph! I am impatient for the conflict. George, you know the Yankees won't fight!"

"Well, we will see. At any rate, from my acquaintance with them, I shall not go to battle against them armed only with a broom-stick. But here we are in Melrose. Don't, for love's sake, talk of war. My heart's in a flutter. Cupid's conflict is worse than the Indians, Fred."

"Yes, I see you have surrended unconditionally; yet your captivity is by no means galling, I observe. Well, you are a lucky fellow, George. Prosperity attend you."

Fatigued from the long journey, so much of it accomplished by tiresome, lumbering stage-coaches, these two travelling companions gladly alighted at the Melrose Tavern, and eagerly sought the refreshments its simple hospitality afforded.



CHAPTER XXIX.



IN the quiet little parlor of Widow Heartwell, in the early May morning, the tender breeze stole in and out of the window, fluttering the muslin curtain and filling the apartment with delicious perfume. In the same parlor a few chosen friends were assembled, to witness the solemn ceremony that was to deprive them of the pride and favorite of the village. As the dial upon the delicate face of the little bronze clock on the mantel marked the hour of eight, the flutter of robes and the rustling of footsteps ushered in the expectant pair, and at once all the guests arose.

Pale and trembling, Mrs. Heartwell took her place beside her daughter, as she stood before the venerable minister. For years the Rev. Mr. Pratt had been their pastor and spiritual adviser, and his heart was filled with deep emotion as he pronounced the solemn words that bound this child of his love and watchful care to her husband, to be "His servitor for aye." Amid smothered sobs, he invoked Heaven's benediction upon their wedded hearts, praying that, as love had directed this union, so love might attend them, even unto death.

Amid sighs and tears, the congratulations were received, and when at length Fred Pinckney found a moment to whisper in George Marshall's ear, he said, with characteristic drollery, "By Jupiter? I'll be glad when the coach comes. I can't stand so much crying; it's more like a funeral than a wedding. If they are obliged to blubber this way when a fellow marries, I think I shall back out."

Another hour and the bridal party had departed. The fair flower of Melrose was gone, changed from a lonely maiden to a happy, hopeful bride; gone to follow the footsteps of a true, brave-hearted husband,-gone from Melrose, leaving many aching hearts behind; leaving, too, a vacancy that no succession of years could ever quite fill.

A fortnight after the quiet wedding in Melrose, late one afternoon, George Marshall and his wife were walking slowly along the ever-thronged battery of the Queen City, whither they had come on a visit to Captain Marshall's uncle, Dr. Thornwell. A serious expression rested upon the young captain's face, as he surveyed the long lines of tents that dotted the open square and bordered the broad street-so serious indeed, that he scarcely heeded the passers-by who were bowing salutations to him and his fair bride.

"George, you seem so abstracted; you scarcely noticed Frank Brewster as he passed just now in the brett with Florence Dale. What's the matter, dear?"

"I'm troubled, perplexed, pondering, my dear. Yet I did not mean to be so abstracted. I must beg your forgiveness, as well as that of my friends."

"Oh! never mind me, George; only tell me what troubles you."

"Nothing more than the perplexing question that has harassed me ever since I came home, and saw beyond a doubt that we should have war-the question that I must soon decide, whether I shall desert my State in time of peril, or my country. In either course of acting, I shall be branded as a traitor, or a rebel. It's a serious dilemma to be placed in, dear Eliza, and I must act wisely, and like a man. My heart is dreadfully divided: duty calls me to my country, and love calls me to my home. My forebodings, too, whisper that this war will be no trifling affair."

"Well, for my part, George, and you already know it, I am opposed to secession. Fred Pinckney says it's on account of the Whig blood that flows in my veins. I told him that my father, and my grandfather before him, were uncompromising Whigs. It may be so; I don't know. I abhor the idea of bloodshed, and as yet, I think we have had little cause to declare war."

"You are a sage little woman, and your argument sound, but these sentiments won't do to promulgate in the Queen City. Remember, I am still a commissioned officer in the United States army. Be careful."

"Oh! I am not afraid of my sentiments, or of being deemed traitorous. Only this morning, Colonel Legare asked me if I would present the Palmetto Rifles with the new flag he had made for them. But to return. War is war, George, and should be entered into with caution."

"Yes; you are right. I feel at times as though I could not fight against the flag of my country; and then, on the other hand, I would not fight against my home and kindred. There seems but one alternative left to me-to resign my commission in the army and not take up arms at all," replied the young officer sadly.

"Well, cheer up. Don't grow despondent. I hope wisdom will direct your decision; and remember, if the thought will give you any comfort, that I have sworn to follow your footsteps and your fortune, wheresoever they may lead, be it from craggy Maine to wild Colorado," said the young wife with forced pleasantry.

"Bravo! what a lucky fellow I am! Surely no evil will befall me. Your cheering words decide my choice; wisdom, you say, will direct the decision. It shall be made. We will once more make the charming round of this inviting boulevard, and then I'll tell you my decision. There goes Fred Pinckney on horseback. How handsome he looks in that uniform! He belongs to the Palmetto Rifles, I believe."

"Yes, so he does. Fred's a gallant, handsome fellow, a little too hot-blooded, though," replied the young wife, thoughtfully.

Once again the gay promenade was traversed, and as the sun's last ray was faintly dying, the young wife stopped, and leaning gently on the railing with eye turned toward the sea, she said, "Now, George, tell me your decision." And he replied quickly, "I shall resign my commission in the army, and cast my lot with my people and my State. Alas! I may never see Franco again!"

"I trust you have acted wisely," replied the young wife, thoughtfully. "But, oh, George, see Defiance. See how the dying sun gilds the flag, the new flag that has risen above the old one that floated there when I was here a school-girl. Somehow I love the old flag, the Stars and Stripes-'Whig blood,' I suppose; but Defiance always looked so grim and terrible to me, even when I was a school-girl, in peaceful days, and now it appears a terrible monster of horror!"

"Oh! Defiance bears you no ill-will, my darling. It's a quiet old fort, that will protect us from our enemies. Long live the memory of the man who surrendered it only at the mouth of cannon! But come, let's be going. It's late; already pedestrians and vehicles are turning homeward."

How sad, that time so far has furnished no historian or biographer truthfully and charitably to chronicle the terrible struggle of many noble-souled men, who sacrificed the love of country for the love of State in that unhallowed civil war! Yet there is the truth that the great Searcher of human hearts has His record on high; and in the unfolding hereafter, many souls that here were branded as traitors, will there receive the rewards of patriots. Scores who were here despised for cowardice, will there receive the plaudits that await the brave. Legions who have perished in ignominious cells, will there be found crowned heroes. For who knows the yet unwritten record of the horrible war between the States, but the heroes who perished here and passed on beyond?



CHAPTER XXX.



SIX months rolled by-six memorable months, that sadly blasted a nation's hopes, and overturned the plans and purposes of countless individuals. The war-cloud had darkened and deepened, till the sky of many a happy home was already obscured by its fearful gloom. At the first bugle-note of conflict, a peaceful, happy people was transformed, as if by magic, into a warlike host. The war-tide rushed on with an impetuosity that bore all things before it. Willing or unwilling, men must be soldiers. Cities, towns, and villages were astir with excitement. Forgetting the ordinary interests of life, people talked enthusiastically, madly, of war. Months ago had the accustomed serenity of the Queen City given place to noisy military life. Its by-ways and suburbs were dotted with tents, the phantom homes of soldiers. Men who yesterday were gentlemen, were to-day only vassals, whose existence was marked by the morning rveille and the evening tattoo. The drilling, drilling, drilling, still hourly went on; but not that peaceful exercise the inhabitants had been wont to observe in Citadel Square in days agone. Marching, guarding, countermarching, watching, were the order of the day. Some hearts were wild with enthusiasm, others dark with despair. Already the tide of brothers' blood had crimsoned the sod of more than one State. Blood, blood, was flowing-crimson blood, that might have been a libation to a nobler, holier cause.

Old Defiance, standing dark and warlike in the harbor of the Queen City, had now a new commander. The guns, as usual, turned their deadly mouths to the open sea, but the gunners and the commander did not wear the uniform of the old troops once garrisoned there. George Marshall, impelled by the love of State, and moved by the importunities of friends, had accepted the position of commander at Defiance, and was now Colonel instead of Captain Marshall. With regret, with tears even, he folded away the regimentals of the old army, and said with a sigh, as he laid them out of sight, "I shall never need them again." Blame him, if you dare, you who have never stood the test of such a trial. Censure him for a traitor, if you must, you that have only dallied on the outskirts of your country's danger. In that book on high, thank God, angels read his record aright.

"George," said Eliza one morning to her husband, in a soft October day, as he was about leaving her for the fort, "I am sorry you ever took command of Defiance. I have always had a strange horror of that monster of the sea. I hate to think of your being there."

"Well, you are foolish in that fear, my love. It's much better for you than if I were in the field. If I were at the head of a regiment, I should be ordered here and there, Fate only knows where, and maybe not see you for months, perhaps years. When you become more acquainted with the old fortress, my dear, you will cease to regard it with such terror."

"Maybe I shall, George, but I fear not. It stands like some terrible apparition, ever before me, waking or sleeping," she replied, half sadly, half fearfully. "Oh! this terrible war! It has begun, but it is not yet ended," she added with a shudder.

"You must be more hopeful; your words are not encouraging to a soldier-husband. Come, cheer up, and go with me over to the fortress this evening. What do you say? Go, and beard the lion in his den, as it were."

"I shall be most happy to do so, if it will tend to dispel my prejudice, or rather, my dread of the place. At what hour?"

"At six P. M. precisely, the Sea-Foam leaves pier number three for the fort. I'll return in time for us to leave at that hour. Be ready. Adieu. I must hasten!" He kissed her, and was gone.

When Eliza was once again alone in her quiet chamber, the skilful fingers were busy with her work, and the perplexed brain was busy with its thoughts. At length she said, half audibly, "I may be foolish. God only knows how dreadfully I feel about this wretched war."

At the appointed time George Marshall returned, to find his wife awaiting him; and without delay they sought the Sea-Foam's pier. As the young colonel walked beside his wife, so modestly yet becomingly attired in simple white muslin, with a blue scarf round her faultless figure, he thought her a paragon of beauty, and passed on in silent admiration, till the pier was reached.

"What does this embarkation recall to your mind, George?" said the young wife pleasantly, as her husband seated himself beside her on the deck of the Sea-Foam.

"Nothing in particular, that I remember. What is it?"

"Oh, I was vain enough to suppose it might recall to you an occasion that has ever been memorable to me," she replied archly. But I see you have forgotten that sunny June evening, five years ago, when I embarked, from this very pier-embarked, leaving you behind, and thinking I should never see you again."

"Oh, forgive my want of memory and sentimentality. The war has well-nigh crushed the latter out of my nature. I thank God though, that we have now embarked together on the ocean of life, with no fear of separation, and with the hope, too, that storms, if they come, may not wreck our bark. Isn't the sea lovely? And how delicious the breeze!"

"Yes, the flags float airily; but the fort, though seemingly so near, is yet quite far away. How deceptive is water!" The boat sped on toward the fortress like a feather on the breeze.

"Here we come," said the colonel, "nearer, nearer, nearer, to the huge pile of sea-washed brick and mortar; nearer to your dreaded enemy, my love; slower, slower, slower, to the land. Here we are!" And the Sea-Foam safely cast her anchor once again.



CHAPTER XXXI.



EVENT crowded upon event as the first two long years of the war glided by-years that seemed to calendar twenty-four, instead of twelve months each. The strife hadn't yet reached its climax, but blood was flowing fearfully. From Maine to the Gulf was one vast beleaguered sea-coast, for at every sea-port city, grim monsters of war stood guarding the entrance to the harbor. Already the central, though despised Queen City, was feeling the fire of a fierce and cruel bombardment. Refugees were flitting hither and thither about the country, seeking peace and security, but finding none. Want and privation were even now beginning to menace a once luxurious people, and gloom and despair to enshroud the hopes of those who had fondly dreamed of a successful dismemberment of the Union. Such was the record of the years preceding the memorable seven days' fighting at "Merry Oaks."

These battles form the half-way stone in the long period of our civil war. It was the day after the dreadful conflict. The forces had retired to re-gather their strength, and the wounded, dying, and dead, were left upon the field. Early in the morning, as the heat of the summer sun was streaming down, a horseman rode slowly and carefully about this field of death. Here and there, lying thickly, as they fell, were the dead of both forces, easily distinguished by the different colors they wore, while gathered in groups, under the grateful shade-trees, could be seen the wounded whose strength was sufficient to drag them thither. This field was a shocking spectacle. And as the horseman rode slowly along the desolate track, peering curiously and sadly into the upturned faces of the dead, a casual observer might have detected the melancholy expression on his face, and marked the glittering tear that bedewed his eyes. For brave, true, noble George Marshall, was never ashamed to weep over the woes of humanity! Imperative business had called him from his post of duty to the seat of war, just in time to be within ear-shot of that memorable seven days' carnage. And as he rode, on that quiet summer morning, strange, painful emotions filled his heart. Around and about him, before and behind, lay grim and ghastly faces cold in death-faces of soldiers who were brothers in country, and many of them brothers in name-brothers in actual consanguinity, brothers in destiny, brothers in everything, save love. There they were, peaceful now, side by side, the last conflict ended, the last spark of animosity extinguished; there, side by side-dead. No wonder George Marshall wept. The wonder is that there ever throbbed a human heart that could refrain from weeping over such a scene.

At length, George Marshall suddenly drew his rein, and lifting his hand to his forehead so as to shade his eyes, gazed curiously forward for a moment toward an object lying not very far distant. Then, quickly alighting, he stepped cautiously toward the object of his scrutiny. It was the dead body of a soldier. The dark blue uniform told to which army he belonged. The stocking, turned back from a slender ankle, fell carelessly over the heavy army shoe. The head was half-averted, and the open eyes, though sightless, were still bright with God's own azure.

"Creeping gently through his slender hand, as though it loved the cold caress of death, was a wild vine whose tiny blossoms would have shrunk at the touch of a wild bee's foot." By the side of his face was the worn cap that had fallen from his head as he fell.

Fearfully, timidly, with an air of dread, Colonel Marshall approached the silent figure and bent over the recumbent form.

"Great God! it is Franco! I thought I knew the poor fellow from afar! Poor, poor boy! Poor fair-haired Franco!" he exclaimed in a breath. Then gently turning the soiled cap, he read "Third Regiment United States Regulars." "My old command, my old command," he murmured. "Alas! poor Franco! I thank God we did not meet in deadly conflict. Your true, kind heart wished no one ill, yet an unkind fate has brought you to a mournful end, and I, for one, shall mourn your hapless lot. Alas! poor boy, you'll never see your vine-clad France again, and your kind mother's peasant home will ever be darkened by your absence."

Then kneeling for a little time beside the dead boy, the kind-hearted colonel dropped a tear and bowed his head in deep reflection. Then, arising and looking eagerly about him, he said at length, "There, in the end of that entrenchment, by the side of that shattered tree, I can lay his body, in lieu of a better grave. There it will at least be safe from the vultures and the horrible fate that awaits the unburied dead of a defeated army."

Then tenderly and sadly he laid the young soldier away in his peaceful grave, covering his face with his smoke-stained cap, and folding his pulseless hands upon his bosom. At last, covering the mound upon which his tears had fallen, with some evergreen boughs, he patiently carved upon a rude board, that he set up to mark the grave, the words:

"POOR FRANCO. Aged 20."



CHAPTER XXXII.



THE bombardment of the Queen City continued. With unprecedented stubbornness did she resist the enemy's fierce demands, and stand firm amid the death-dealing blows of shot and shell. Many of the inhabitants had fled from their homes at the first boom of the shelling guns, but many, too, had remained; and among the latter number was Mr. Mordecai's family. But now the moment had arrived when farther exposure to danger seemed to the banker a reckless disregard of life. So they were going-going, as many others had gone, leaving behind the palatial home, with its comforts and luxuries, for the privations, hardships, discomforts, of a refugee life. Articles of value were being removed to places of greater security, some to be sold, others given to remaining friends, who could not get away, and some left uncared for. It was the day before the proposed departure. The house wore the aspect of a dismantled castle. In the room formerly the library, but now well filled with trunks, boxes, bundles, and so on, Rebecca and her faithful attendant were busy with the packing, unpacking, and repacking of their household goods. "Here, Barbara," said Rebecca, turning to the woman nearest her, as she pushed aside an old worn portmanteau, "you can take this. It's an old valise that my husband sent up from the bank the other day, among his rubbish from there. Here, give me the papers out of it, and I'll lookover them, while I sit here to rest a moment. Here, pour them into my apron." Obeying this command, Barbara emptied the contents into the large apron that the mistress upheld to receive them, and she sat down to the examination. One by one the papers fell from her fingers to the floor as valueless trash, and she pushed them with her foot toward the open fire-place. Suddenly she descried upon the floor a dark brown paper, loosely folded, that had fallen from her lap unobserved. picking it up, she drew from it a small book, bound in Russia leather, the size of a man's hand. Upon the outer cover, in dim, well-worn, and mold-covered letters was the word "Journal." "What can this be?" she murmured curiously, holding it tightly in her hand. Slowly unfastening the slender clasp, she read with astonishment the words written upon the first page: "Emile Le Grande's Diary."

Amazed at what her eyes beheld, Rebecca hastily secreted the book in her dress pocket and retired from the room. Once securely out of sight, she eagerly began her scrutiny of the ill-fated little book that had fallen so mysteriously into her possession. Record after record was read with greedy eye. Soon her eye rested upon the name, "Leah Mordecai." No vulture ever devoured its unfortunate prey with more rapacity that did this wicked woman the contents that followed, day after day. Her eye gleamed with delight, and her jewelled hands trembled for joy, as she turned leaf after leaf of the unfortunate book. At length she stopped suddenly, and exclaimed half-wildly, "Aha! I know it now! At last the truth has come to light, the terrible mystery is revealed," as she read the unfortunate yet idle record of young Le Grande's, made on the night of Bertha Levy's tea- party, the foolish record: "If I knew that she loved Mark Abrams, I would kill him."

"You are mistaken, my bird," Rebecca continued to soliloquize; "he did not love Leah Mordecai as fondly as you supposed, but you dared to kill him from jealous hatred when you well knew you were destroying the hopes and future of my child. Well, I'll see to it that revenge comes. My young eagle, you are not so far away, but justice can find you. Though the water of a dozen oceans rolled between us, I think my revenge could reach you. Rest on in your fancied security while you may, young villain; the storm is gathering for your destruction. Rest on. Rebecca Mordecai will never, never forget you. I will keep this secret to myself till my plans are matured; then I will act. Now, we must fly, and then-well, never mind what then, so I keep this treasure safe in my grasp." So saying, she stowed the journal away in her bosom, and with a cruel laugh, busied herself again with her preparations for departure. The removal was made. The mansion of the banker was vacated, and the Queen City left to the mercy of the spoiler. In all these days of agitation and confusion, the little journal lay safe in the bosom of its possessor. She intended to have the way clear, before unfolding her secret and her purpose. And so it was.



CHAPTER XXXIII.



IN their quiet little sea-girt home, where the skies were bright and blue, and the breezes balmy and soft, Emile Le Grande and his young wife had dwelt in peace and happiness for nearly five years. Not a line had ever come, amid all Leah's hopeless longing and vain expectation, to assure her of her father's forgiveness and continued love. So, weary from this continued disappointment, she had settled down into the confident assurance, that his blessing now would never come, and she must find happiness alone in her husband's love. Long, long ago, Emile's parents had written, expressing kindest wishes for their welfare, and tendering to Leah a daughter's welcome. Mrs. Le Grande, although disappointed and chagrined that Belle Upton was not the choice of her son's love, soon quieted down, and accepted the alternative with astonishing and commendable resignation. So, despite Leah's bitter disappointment, she was happy; for, aside from Emile's love, she soon drew hope and happiness from the life of the dark-eyed little daughter that had come to bless her home. Emile had yielded to Leah's wishes, and, following the custom of her people, she had called her little daughter, Sarah, in memory of her mother, whose death she had so long and deeply mourned.

The event of this little grandchild's birth had never reached Mr. Mordecai's ears, for he had regarded Leah as dead, ever since that dreadful morning when he discovered that she had clandestinely married a "Christian dog." He desired to know naught of her welfare; he avoided knowing anything.

In the interior of the State, about two hundred miles distant from the Queen City, was a cosy, sequestered little settlement, called Inglewood. To this little shelter of peace and security, many refugees had found their way, and taken temporary homes. Many Hebrew families from the Queen City had fled thither, and among them those of Rabbi Abrams and Mr. Mordecai.

It was some weeks after Mr. Mordecai's removal to Inglewood, when one day Rebecca requested her husband to accompany her to the house of the rabbi. Mr. Mordecai gladly assented. They found the rabbi, as usual, engrossed with his books in the temporary library that was a necessary feature of his home. Mrs. Abrams still bore on her pale, calm face the marks of sorrow that had rested there since the terrible and mysterious death of her son. Without delay, and by dint of that skilful management which was characteristic of Rebecca, she approached the dreadful subject of Mark's death. Then, after a pause, looking straight at the rabbi, she said suddenly, with terrible emphasis, "I know the guilty man-the one who did the dreadful deed." The rabbi, his wife, and Mr. Mordecai looked aghast.

"What do you mean," at length spoke out the rabbi, in fearful bewilderment.

"I mean that I know who assassinated Mark," she replied, with flashing eye and ringing voice.

"Know who killed my son!" he ejaculated hoarsely, "for Heaven's sake, who was it?"

"You know the dark villain, Rebecca, who did that bloody deed! By Israel, who was it?" said her husband, almost in the same breath.

"It was Emile-Le-Grande!" she replied slowly. "He and none other."

"That's a dreadful accusation," said the rabbi; "by what authority do you make such a statement?"

"By the authority of his own words," she replied triumphantly. "Here, you can read the confession for yourself." She drew forth the little journal and pointed to the records.

"There, read first: 'If I thought Mark Abrams loved her, I would kill him."

"Great God!" gasped the rabbi, looking again at the record as though he thought his eyes had deceived him.

"Here again, see here," said Rebecca, pointing to one other record: "'Dead men tell no tales.' Was that not some deed of his foul doing that he did not wish discovered?" she continued, as she turned onward through the book.

"He shall die!" exclaimed Mr. Mordecai, quivering with rage and astonishment, while the stricken father turned and walked sadly across the floor, exclaiming, "Ah me! ah me! Alas! my poor boy?" while the mother's wounded heart bled afresh.

"See here again," said Rebecca, pointing with her finger to another record that bore upon the mystery.

"Enough! enough!" exclaimed the father, averting his head and waving her to silence with his hand. "I have seen enough; the mystery is plain, the truth at last revealed. O God, the dreadful truth!"

Mr. Mordecai stamped his foot, clenched his hands, and muttering half audibly, "This villain has ruined you, has broken my heart, and destroyed the hopes of my child; and he shall die!"

"But, poor Leah, my husband," said Rebecca, half timidly, and with a semblance of deep feeling.

"Leah!" he angrily repeated, "dare you even, now, speak that name to me? Would to God she were dead! Never insult me again with the utterance of that name?"

"Forgive me, dear husband; in the excitement of this sad discovery I forgot your commands. I'll obey you in future." And turning again to the subject, in order to appease her husband's displeasure, she added, "By what means can you hope to reach Emile now, dear husband? You know he's far away, and the guns of a blockading fleet intervene."

"Though the guns of a dozen fleets intervened, I should bring him to justice," he replied sharply.

"Think what my dear Sarah has suffered-is suffering still, from the work of his bloody hand, dear husband," said Rebecca, affecting to weep, as she covered her face with her hand.

Well-nigh aroused to frenzy, Mr. Mordecai said fiercely, "Promise me, Rabbi Abrams, promise me, Rebecca, that you will lend me your aid in bringing this fugitive to justice; and I swear by Jerusalem, he shall be punished. I have gold, and that will insure me success. Yes, I have gold he coveted, but-aha! that he has never received. Pledge me, promise me, both of you, that good allies you will be!" And they pledged him.

"But, tell me, Rebecca," said the rabbi, suddenly stopping in his agitated walk. "How did you come into possession of that book?"

"Indeed, Rabbi Abrams, that is a mystery. In packing and unpacking, preparatory to leaving the Queen City, I accidentally found this Journal in an old portmanteau that my husband sent up from his bank one day, among a lot of rubbish. It had lain there a long time, I judge. Can you clear up the mystery, my husband?" she said, turning to Mr. Mordecai.

"Let me see it," he replied; and taking the Journal from her hands, he held it in his grasp as though it were a deadly thing, while he eyed it strangely from side to side.

"I think, I think," he said slowly, as though abstracted and confused; "I think this is the book Mingo gave me the morning after—" Then he was silent. "Well, he found it in the lodge, I guess," he continued. "I remember his giving me a small book that morning, and I laid it away somewhere, to look at when my mind was less agitated. I had forgotten it."

"A kind fate has preserved it, husband, so that we might be avenged," said Rebecca.

"Keep it securely then, as it will be needed in the future. You are a wise, good woman, a wise little wife," added the husband, with all trace of displeasure toward her banished from his face.

Her mission accomplished, Rebecca, leaving the distressed family to find solace for their sorrow as best they could, returned home to gloat on the perfection of a scheme that would bring sorrow and desolation to the happy Cuban home.



CHAPTER XXXIV.



THE war still raged. The whole world, one might dare to say, was more or less agitated by this conflict. Vigilance, tightening its grasp here, redoubling its blows there, watching the inlets and outlets everywhere, had taught a once happy people that war was no holiday sport. But the great end must be reached, the end of the "War of the Rebellion" with the government intact. To accomplish this, every means was deemed fair and honorable. Blockading, starvation, destruction of property, the torch-yea, any and every appliance that would tend to subdue a hostile people, was brought into requisition to maintain the Union.

So, before the third year of the memorable civil war had run its bloody course, want almost stalked abroad in this fair Southern land. But for the successful, though occasional ventures of some friendly vessel, that succeeded in running the blockade, bringing stores necessary for the comfort of a war-worn people, dire want might have reigned supreme in many a household, where wealth and luxury once dwelt. So much for the good accomplished by those bold adventurers of the sea. And yet there were blockade-runners-a few, a very few, thank Heaven-who were but a set of human vultures, preying upon their fellow-beings, and who, for a sum of gold, would lend their hand to any deed of darkness. To this latter class belonged Joe Haralson, the well-known captain of the Tigress, the most successful blockade-runner on all the southern coast. Haralson himself was a native of one of the fertile cotton islands off the coast of the Palmetto State, and, in an hour of danger, had deserted his country, and fled to the West Indies. There he equipped a vessel for blockade-running, and being familiar with much of the southern coast, he was always successful in eluding the guns of the blockading fleets, and entering safely with his cargo. The supplies of merchandise, and the munitions of war that he occasionally landed, were exchanged for cotton, which he sold for gold at a fabulous profit.

It was the summer after the removal of Mr. Mordecai's family to Inglewood. In the month of June, Joe Haralson anchored the Tigress safely within the port of Havana. New Providence was his usual harbor of refuge; but now, other business than the successful disposal of his cargo of cotton had brought him thither. One soft, sweet morning, in this land where spring and summer alternate, Leah had been out driving with her husband, enjoying the early morning breeze, and hoping that it would benefit the delicate little Sarah, then in her second summer. They drew near the Plaza de la Mar, and Emile remarked, as he surveyed the endless rows of shipping:

"There, Leah, see the countless numbers of flags."

"Yes, all but the flag of our struggling country," she replied. "I wonder if that will ever become a recognized flag among nations?"

"I fear not," Emile replied gravely. "But there! our darling has fallen asleep! We must hasten home."

On reaching home, Emile kissed his wife, and softly kissed his sleeping baby too, before alighting from the light volante; and then, throwing the lines to Petro, the slave, who was awaiting their return, he said, "Take care of the pony, Petro;" and turning to his wife—"You take care of my wee lamb, Leah, till I come again," and left them.

An hour later, and a thick-set, rough-visaged man entered the banking-house of Gardner & Company, and asked, in faltering English, "Is Seor Le Grande in?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Gardner. "Here, Mr. Le Grande, this man wants to see you." Emile approached, and looking curiously at the stranger, observed that he was clad partly in sailor's, partly in citizen's clothes. "What will you have, sir?" demanded Emile.

"Seor," replied the strange man, whose broken English betrayed his Spanish tongue, "Dere is at da w'arf Blanco Plaza, a 'Merican vessel from da States. A seik frien' wish to see seor Le Grande, very quick, very quick, seor."

"From what State does the vessel come?" asked Emile in astonishment.

"From da Soutern State, seor, da Pa'metto State."

In a moment Emile conjectured that it was some blockade-runner, and supposed some friend or relative had arrived, and, being unable to come on shore, had indeed sent for him. Without waiting to consider, and without further explanation, he accompanied the strange guide, who led the way to the wharf. The flags were floating free and gay, yet as this nameless cicerone pointed out the Tigress, that lay before them with flag staff bare, Emile Le Grande thought, "The captain is afraid to show his colors; well he may be."

"Captain Haralson, Seor Le Grande," said the guide, in broken accents, as he entered the ship's cabin, where the captain awaited his return. "I told cap'n you I would bring him," he continued, with a savage grin upon his features.

"Who is it would see me?" demanded Emile. "Where is my sick friend?"

"You are a prisoner, sir," replied the captain fiercely, "a fugitive from justice, and your State calls for your return."

"By what authority do you utter those words, you scoundrel?" replied Emile, in bewildered indignation.

"By the authority of those you have injured, and who have sent me to bring you back."

"Who, and where are my accusers?" asked Emile angrily. "Let them dare confront me!"

"Then follow me," said the captain, as he passed along to a small apartment, a kind of saloon, at the end of the vessel. He gave three sharp, quick raps at the door, then turned the bolt and entered. Emile followed. Seated before them upon a ship-lounge, with a book lying idly in her lap, was-Rebecca Mordecai!

"Aha! and you have come at last, captain," she said. Arising from her seat and turning her eyes upon Emile, she continued, "Mr. Le Grande, we meet again, securely as you deemed yourself beyond the reach of justice. You see oceans and shell-guns are no barriers in the way of the accomplishment of my ends. You fled from your country, thinking your foul crime would never come to light; but 'murder will out,' and now, you are my prisoner. Justice will yet be avenged."

"What do you mean, woman? your tongue contains the poison of asps. If I did not know your face, I would swear you were some escaped inmate of a madhouse. Tell me your meaning, lunatic," replied Emile, in wrathful astonishment.

"Call me lunatic, if you dare, you miserable felon. Deny my words, if you please, but your own written confession is in my hands."

"Confession of what?" shouted Emile, stamping his foot in indignation. "Never, never, am I your prisoner! I'll leave this cursed place,—"

"Not so fast, my friend," said Joe Haralson menacingly, as Emile made an attempt to leave the room. "Not so fast! I am promised much gold, if I bring you alive to your native State; and that gold, my friend, I shall have."

"Release me! release me!" shouted Emile, "I am an innocent man. This woman—"

"Hush, my friend, or I'll stow you away where your cries will not reach any human ear. Be quiet, my lad."

Emile saw that resistance was useless; and he said calmly, turning again to Rebecca "Of what crime am I guilty, that you thus hunt me as you would a wild beast?"

"Would you know?" she replied, with a scornful, cruel laugh. "Would you know even half the crimes that are scored against you in your native State?"

"You can tell me of none," he replied sullenly, regretting that he had again spoken to this merciless woman, into whose snare he had so unwarily fallen.

"Perhaps you think we have not yet discovered who murdered Mark Abrams; but, sir, we have."

"Who was it?" indignantly inquired Emile.

"It was-Emile-Le-Grande," she replied slowly, her fierce eye marking every emotion of his face.

"Great Heavens. What an atrocity!"

"Deny it if you dare, I have the proof."

"Prove it, if you can. I dare you to prove it. But I must leave this place. Such nonsense shall not detain me longer. I know that you are mad.-Captain, release me. Do not heed the ravings of that woman any longer."

"I am pledged, sir, on the accusation of this woman, to convey you safely back to the State, and back you must go. I can allow you no opportunity to escape."

"I must see my wife first. I cannot go without it."

"The vessel is ready to start. It will be impossible for you to see her. If you are quiet and obedient, you shall not be manacled; if you resist, we shall stow you away in security. Be wise now, and be silent."

"But my wife—"

"In an hour the Tigress will be out of port, sir, and you cannot see her."

"Alas! alas!" groaned Emile. "In Heaven's name, why has this evil befallen me?" and quickly sinking down upon a cabin stool, he said, "Keep me from the presence of this wretched lunatic, captain, if I must go. Yes, if I must be stolen in this cowardly way, from a peaceful home, and taken from a loving wife and innocent, helpless child, I can but submit; but keep that wretched woman out of my presence, I implore you."

"My friend, you may stay in here," replied the relentless captain, "till we are out of port;" and opening the door of a small room that contained only a port-hole of a window, he locked Emile in, and then busied himself with preparations for a speedy departure. Once shut in, Emile drew from his pocket a slip of paper, and addressed a line to Gardner & Company, urging his friend to go for his wife, and come to him at once. From his diminutive window he spied a slave near by, and quickly summoning him, said, "Here's my watch, boy; take this note quick to Gardner & Company, and my watch shall be yours." Then he threw the slip of paper out of the window. Distressed and dismayed, he sank down again, nervous and miserable, for fear the Tigress would depart before his wife and Mr. Gardner should arrive.

RECEIVING Emile's mysterious note, Mr. Gardner went with all possible speed to the young man's home, and informed Leah of what had transpired. "I do not understand this note," he said; "there is certainly a mystery about this summons. The man who came for Le Grande had a strange, mean-looking face; but we must hasten."

Leah, so long accustomed to sorrow, evinced no unusual emotion at these apprehensive words of Mr. Gardner; but calmly asked:

"Do you suppose any harm has come to my husband?"

"I cannot say, madam; I trust not."

"What motive could that man have had for deceiving Emile?"

"Mercy knows, but it will not do to trust these treacherous Spaniards too far. Still his story may have been a truthful one. He was undoubtedly a sailor. We will at least go and see. The pony and chaise are ready."

"Take care of my darling, Margarita," said Leah, as she kissed her sleeping child, and stepped out to the waiting volante.

"Now drive fast, Mr. Gardner. My heart misgives me."

Without replying, Mr. Gardner urged forward the fleet pony, and they did not slacken their speed until street after street had been traversed, corner upon corner turned, and they were in sight of the Plaza de la Mar, with its myriads of ships' masts and flags in view. Then, driving more slowly, Mr. Gardner turned upon the dock of pier number three, and looked eagerly forward. There was no ship there. Alighting from the chaise, Leah and Mr. Gardner approached a party of ship-hands at work there, and asked:

"Is not this pier number three, where an American vessel has been anchored?"

"Yes, seor, but the American vessel has been out of port an hour."

"Out of port an hour!" repeated Leah, in dismay. "Where is my husband, then?"

Mr. Gardner shook his head dubiously, and said, "He may have gone with them."

"Gone with them?" said Leah wildly. "Gone!" she uttered again, and then sank helpless upon the wharf.

Mr. Gardner, deeply moved, lifted her again into the chaise, with the assurance that her husband in all probability had returned to his place of business.

Once more at the bank, Mr. Gardner was disappointed to find that Emile had not returned, but instead, another scrap of paper was awaiting him, bearing these dreadfully significant words:

"They have stolen me away, to take me back to my native State, to answer for a fiendish crime of which I am not guilty. Send my wife after me as soon as—"

Here Emile had stopped for want of time. He had thrown the note into the hands of the same slave who had carried the first one.

"Take that to Gardner & Company, and they will pay you," he said, as the Tigress pushed from shore.

The ship had started; and Emile, alone in darkness and despair, tried vainly to conjecture whence this mysterious trouble had come, and what would be its probable result.

The captain of the Tigress, as has been said, was a mercenary and rapacious man, caring no more for a bleeding country than does a bird of prey for a bleeding dove. So long as he obtained the gold of his impoverished countrymen, and eluded the grasp of the blockading fleet that so vigilantly guarded every important port, he was contented. To the care of this man, this iron-hearted captain, Rebecca Mordecai had committed herself, in her endeavor, as she said, "to recall Emile Le Grande to the bar of justice."

"If you land me safely there, captain, I will give you gold. If you bring me safely back with the culprit, I will give you more."

Haralson, aware that the coffers in the Mordecai vault were well-filled with the coveted ore, pledged himself, and swore a terrible oath, that his ocean wanderer should accomplish this trip, even at the cost of the last drop of his heart's blood. How successful he was in landing and treacherously inveigling his victim into the ship, has been seen. Then, after two days of rather tempestuous sailing in a tropical sea, dodging here and there, for fear of being pounced upon by the maritime monsters he sought to elude, Haralson landed, at length, at an inlet, obscure but well- known to him, upon the low, sandy shore of the Palmetto State. With downcast heart, Emile once more set foot upon his native soil, and at the bidding of his captor followed sullenly in the way she led. Chagrined, stung, maddened almost, he trod the devious way that led him back once more-back, back, to the Queen City. Not back to his father's comfortable home, for that, alas! was unoccupied, and the family refugees in a foreign land. But back again, in a felon's manacles, to find lodgment in a felon's cell-back to solitude and despair, when at length, the grim old turnkey turned the grating bolt upon him, and he was left alone in prison.



CHAPTER XXXVI.



THE war still raged. Everywhere in all the beleaguered land, the tide of brothers' blood flowed apace. Bitterness grew with every hour, and not one heaven-toned voice was heard above the din of carnage, saying, "Stay the madness, and let the blood stop flowing." The end was not yet reached, the great problem of this unnatural conflict not yet solved. The bombardment of the Queen City still continued, though with little hope of its surrender. But the shelling went on, as though this murderous rain of death were but a merry pastime, on those summer days. The fort was now deemed impregnable; and yet the hope of its surrender was one that could not die in the hearts of the beleaguerers. Day after day, they assaulted and reassaulted, and day by day were filled with disappointment.

At last, one bright June day was ushered in by a terrific boom, and then, as if summoning the last spark of hope and determination, the grim mouths of the cannon belched forth, for many hours, such a rain of shot and shell as will ever be remembered. The sky was blackened early with the cloud of smoke that rolled up from the sea-the sulphurous smoke that pervaded every nook of the city, and was borne away upon every hurrying breeze to the far-off hills and valleys. One might well imagine the scene a very inferno; so terrible was the conflict. Stern, dark, and resolute, Defiance stood for hours-not a gun dismounted, not a man dismayed. But the day grew late, and still the booming cannons roared. The heavens above were overcast, as though nature were ready with a flood of tears to weep over the deeds of humanity. The lightning flashed, and the guns flashed, and here and there and everywhere the dreadful shells fell thick and fast.

At length one fell upon the ramparts of Defiance and exploded-exploded with a crash of fury that said to every listening ear, "Some dreadful deed is done."

Alas! alas! The wild crash sounded the death-knell of one brave, noble heart, and crushed countless hopes as George Marshall's soul went out. The murderous fragment of a shell penetrated his brain, and his life was ended in a flash.

Let nothing more be told of the sad story; nothing but simply this: he was killed, and the troops left in dismay and disorder-killed and borne to the last embrace of the wounded heart that knew no after years of healing-killed at Defiance, the place of weird, mysterious terror to the widowed heart from the days of her sunny girlhood-killed and buried away under the magnolia shade, among the hundreds of brave hearts that perished in the same unhappy cause.



CHAPTER XXXVII.



TIME stole along. Many months had slipped into the past since the day of the lamented Colonel Marshall's death-months of which this narrative has little to record, save that they were months of blood.

Returning to the desolate wife, left by an adverse fate alone in her Cuban home, we find her sadly changed. As sudden and unexpected as had been the separation of Emile from his family, so shocking and violent had been the affect of this trouble upon Leah's delicate nature. From the hour when Mr. Gardner informed her of her husband's mysterious disappearance, Leah sank down, overwhelmed with grief. Then for many weeks she lingered through an almost hopeless illness, to recover at length and find herself still alone.

The hope of gaining strength to follow her husband was the one hope that cheered her hours of convalescence, and stimulated the efforts of nature in the work of recovery. At last, time brought relief, and after many months of weary waiting, hoping, watching, the opportunity was at hand for Leah to start in pursuit of her husband. Committed to the care of a kind-hearted man, himself the captain of a blockade-runner, the anxious wife hoped to reach the shores of her native State in safety. Unlike the treacherous Joe Haralson, the captain of the Cotton States, the vessel upon which Leah embarked, was not familiar with the sea-coast of many of the blockaded States; but, urged by her importunities, the kind captain determined, if possible, to land her in safety upon the coast of her native State. In this attempt, however, he was disappointed. It was late one afternoon as the Cotton States was about to anchor safely in an obscure harbor of a small island near the main-land, when the captain discovered, far off on the sea, the dark form of a pursuing gun-boat. Immediately he put to sea, and fortunately, the gathering shades of night obscured the pursued vessel in time to prevent capture. The next day, the Cotton States ran ashore on a lone, sparsely inhabited coast, and, anchored at Sandy Bar, a place known to but few as a possible port of entry.

In this obscure port of entry, the Cotton States was the only vessel that had ever cast anchor. Here, erected on the shore, was a rude, commodious warehouse, built by the speculators who owned this adventurous craft, and designed for the reception of the cotton that was taken out and the cargoes that were brought in by it. The care of this depot of supplies and unlawful merchandise was committed to a rather decrepit, but trustworthy old man, called familiarly "Uncle Jack Marner." In a rude hut, near by this cache above ground, lived old Uncle Jack and his wife. Scipio, a trusty negro, was also employed by the company to assist Uncle Jack in watching the depot, and was usually detailed to inform the owners of the vessel as soon as a cargo was landed. In this obscure harbor-the White Sandy Bar, as it was known to Uncle Jack, the captain, and the company-the Cotton States was anchored and ready to deposit her cargo.

"Madam," said the captain to Leah, "I have done the best I could. I tried to land you nearer your home, but could not; I trust you will bear me no ill-will."

"I can never forget your kindness, sir; once on land, no matter how far from the Queen City, I know I can find my way there. I feel assured my husband is there, if living, and thither I shall go at once."

"Not alone?"

"Oh, yes; alone, if necessary."

"Don't you fear the scouts and straggling soldiers that so infest the land?"

"I fear nothing, captain. I am in search of my husband, and I shall seek him, though I perish in the effort."

"Well, madam, I shall intrust you to the care of Uncle Jack Marner, and go away again knowing that you will be well cared for. There's the old man, and Scipio, at work with the hands unloading. I'll take you to his hut."

Leah thanked him kindly, and taking her child in his arms, the captain led the way to the humble home of Uncle Jack, and introduced Leah to his wife.

Without delay the Cotton States unloaded; loaded again; and was soon once more out at sea in safety.

"It's a mighty weakly lookin' child, madam," said kind Uncle Jack, when he returned to the hut, after the work on the ship was ended. "Is the little creetur sick?"

"No; but she is not very strong, Uncle Jack," was Leah's reply.

"Teethin', maybe? Teethin' ginerally goes hard with the little ones."

"Yes," Leah answered, "teething has made her delicate."

"La, chile, the cap'n tells me you are bound for the Queen City; ain't you afeerd to go thar now, sich a power of shellin' goin' on thar?" And without waiting for a response, he continued, "I think, though, the war-dogs are gittin' tired, and will soon haul off. It's no use tryin' to shell and batter down that fine old city. She never was made to surrender to any furrin' power; and surrender she never will. I'll bet on that. But, my chile, I should be afeerd to go thar now, strong and supple a man as I am, much less a poor, weakly lookin' woman like yerself."

"No, Uncle Jack, I am not afraid. The soldiers would not molest me, and the shells cannot strike me, so I go undaunted. I am seeking my husband, and must find him. How far is it, Uncle Jack, to the Queen City?"

"More'n a hundred mile, chile."

"Can I obtain any conveyance about here to take me part of the way, at least?"

"Chile, thar's not a critter in twenty miles of this place, as I knows on. Nobody lives hereabouts, but me an' the old woman, and Scipio and Toby-that's the company's mule, you know; and Scipio rides Toby to —, when the vessel gits in safe, to tell the company. Scipio must start to-morrow to let the company know the boat is in agin, and when he gits back I'll take you part of the way to the Queen City. You kin ride Toby and I kin walk. I tole the cap'n I'd see you on your way as far as I could."

"When will Scipio return?" inquired Leah timidly.

"Mebbe in a week, mebbe sooner."

"Oh! I cannot stay here a week. I cannot stay a day. I am so impatient to get on. If my husband is living, I must reach him."

"But how can you go, chile?"

"Go alone, Uncle Jack. I assure you I am not afraid."

By Jupiter! Jack Marner let a weakly lookin' woman like you start alone from his house, with no strong arm to pertect you? Never, never, never!" exclaimed the kind old man with emphasis, as he shook his gray locks.

"But there is no one to go with me, Uncle Jack; and as I cannot tarry, I must go alone. I assure you I fear nothing."

The old man continued to shake his head, though he made no reply; and then, handing little Sarah to her mother, he went out of the cabin for some wood, that was needed to prepare the evening meal.

Night passed, and morning came soft and bright; and Leah, refreshed from her slumber, expressed the determination to pursue her journey at once.

"If you will go, the Lord go with you, chile; but I fears you will never git thar. Twenty miles from here, you may find lodgings, and you may not; what then?"

"Oh, I can take care of that; only give me the proper directions, if you can."

"Keep nigh the coast as possible, an' if nothin' devours you, you'll find the Queen City after awhile; but it's more'n a hundred mile, remember. I hate to see you go, I do."

"Do not detain me, Uncle Jack. I cannot, must not stay."

"Well, if go you must and will, I'll go with you till we reach the open road; but I say again, you are welcome to stay here in my cabin, if you will. It's humble, I know, but old Jack Marner has had a sight better home than this, in his day. Yet I thank the Lord I have this one left;" and the old man brushed away a tear with his trembling hand, as he assisted the old woman in preparing some food for Leah's lonely journey. At an early hour they were ready to start. Uncle Jack took little Sarah in his arms, and Leah bade adieu to the kind old wife, and following Uncle Jack, stepped out upon the sandy beach and turned her face toward the far-off, hidden road.

For an hour or more, the pedestrians trudged slowly along, Uncle Jack endeavoring the while to amuse the child in his arms, who would ever and anon stretch out its little arms and cry, "Mamma." With downcast eye and heart, Leah moved steadily forward, heeding nothing, save the occasional cry of her child. Uncle Jack, as he walked along, had broken a green bough from a swamp-myrtle, and gathered a spray of blue winter berries, which he bound together as a nosegay for the child. With these he charmed its baby fancy, and foiled every endeavor to reach its mother's arms. At length the trail was ended, and the open road reached.

"Now," said Uncle Jack, "we are here at last. This is the road that leads to Sheltonville, the only place that lies in your way to the Queen City. Keep it straight, chile, an' mebbe you'll reach thar at last; mebbe not; I don't know. Here, let's rest a minit under this water-oak. Sit down on the log; I'll warrant there's no snakes under it."

Leah slightly smiled as she obeyed this command, and sat down on the crumbling, moss-grown wood, saying:

"Uncle Jack, are there any rivers in my way to the Queen City?"

"None, chile, but the Little Black, and you kin cross that at Sheltonville. It's a wonder those dev'lish soldiers hain't destroyed the bridge, 'fore this; but they hadn't, the last I heered from Sheltonville."

"Oh, I can get across, I guess," replied Leah cheerfully. "Rivers, nor mountains either, can keep me from my husband now. If he is in the city, I shall find him." Here little Sarah began to cry, and show signs of weariness. In vain Uncle Jack flourished the wild nosegay, whistled, sang, chirruped; the little creature would find lodgment in its mother's arms, and sleep on her faithful bosom.

The sun was getting toward the half-way morning hour, when the little child awoke, and clinging around her mother's neck she cunningly averted her face from Uncle Jack, as if to say, "You shall not have me again. I am tired of your wild nosegay."

"Well now," said Uncle Jack, "the little creetur is awake agin, and as spry as a cricket. Come to Uncle Jack, won't ye?"

"I must be going," said Leah. "It's getting late." And rising with the child in her arms, she drew the small bundle of food and clothing that she carried closer to her, and said, "I am ready. Good-by. Keep straight ahead, must I?"

"Yes, chile," replied Uncle Jack in a tremulous voice, "straight ahead, and the good Lord be with ye."

Leah was gone. She followed the sandy road pointed out by Uncle Jack's trembling finger, followed it till a small morass, thick with swamp-growth, hid her from his view; and then the old man said, as he turned sorrowfully back toward his cabin, "Poor chile, she seems to have a lot o' trouble in this troublesome world. And she's so young and purty, too. I thank the Lord there's a world up yonder"—and he cast his tear-dimmed eyes above—"where no more trouble will never come; an' may ole Jack Marner be lucky enough to git thar."

For ten long, weary days, Leah pursued the way that lay straight and unobstructed before her, every step bringing her nearer and nearer to the city of her childhood. Scarcely able, much of the time, to obtain food by day, or lodging by night, still she undauntedly pursued her way, and kept her eyes straight forward toward the end. Foraging parties, and straggling soldiers, passed occasionally, yet not one syllable of disrespect or insult was offered to the lonely woman as she passed along, the living impersonation of unfriended helplessness.

At length, in pain, in weariness, in tears, the journey was almost accomplished, and the evening of the tenth day was closing in. The stars were stealing, one by one, into the blue heavens above, and the bright lights of a hundred camp-fires, far and near, announced the welcome fact that the Queen City was near at hand. The stray shot, too, of some vigilant sentinel, reminded her that, without passports, one could not easily find ingress to the once peaceful, hospitable city. As this thought came, Leah trembled; but she passed forward undaunted to the dreaded sentry line that stretched itself across her pathway. She was too weary to weep, too bewildered to think, too anxious to do aught but look forward toward the advancing city, with its myriad lights, and then down again at the innocent child asleep on her bosom. Upon the breeze that came to greet her, as if in kindly welcome, she caught the note of the old familiar music of the chimes of St. Angelo. "Home, Sweet Home" rang out upon her weary ear with all the sweetness and familiarity of by-gone days.

"How changed is everything here; and, alas! how changed am I," said she; and tottering beneath the burden of her child and the awakened weight of memories, she would have fallen exhausted to the earth, but for a sharp, ringing voice, that said:

"Halt! Who comes there?"

Recalled to a sense of her true situation by this unexpected inquiry, Leah summoned the remnant of her strength and courage, and replied, "Only a woman, weak and tired. In heaven's name let me pass."

"Advance, and give the countersign."

"I cannot! indeed I cannot! But in mercy's name, give me rest and food within the City this night," she replied with a despairing voice.

"Whence do you come?"

"From Sandy Bar, some hundred miles away, and I have walked the whole distance. I bring you no ill, or good news. I am nothing but a poor, helpless woman, faint and famishing. I pray you, in the name of pity, let me pass, kind sentinel."

Touched by these imploring words, the sentry looked furtively around him, and replied softly, "Woman, be quick. Go on; and mind, if you say that I passed you without the countersign, my head will pay the forfeit. Go on, for Tom Marbray hasn't the heart to say no to such a looking woman as you are."

"God bless you!" murmured Leah; "bless you a thousand-fold;" and she hurried forward, and was soon lost in the winding streets of the city, that was now overshadowed by the darkness of night.

Once more within the familiar limits of the old city, she paused, and leaning against the angle of a shop, looked curiously about her, as if endeavoring to define certain localities. At length she said softly:

"Yes, I see the Citadel, and Christ Church spire. But I must rest. I'll enter yonder inn." She stepped forward toward a shabby looking tavern a few doors off, where a crowd of garrulous soldiers were grouped about the door. Too weary to observe any one, Leah staggered into the forlorn, miserably furnished reception-room of the Good Cheer House, and called for food and lodging for herself and child for the night.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.



THE ruddy beams of an October sun shone through the one window of the little rudely furnished room that Leah occupied in the inn. Weary from her long, toilsome journey, she still slept. Though tired nature for a time resisted the intrusion of the garish sunlight, the chirruping of her little child at length aroused Leah to consciousness. The tiny, dimpled hands were tangled in the long black hair that hung about the mother's shoulders in dishevelled grace, and the merry child laughed gleefully as the mother awoke.

"Is my bird always ready to sing?" said Leah tenderly, as she beheld the innocent, happy child by her side. "May you never know a note of sadness, my love; sing on, while you may." Then Leah sadly turned her eyes upward to the cracked, stained wall overhead, and faintly murmured, "Here I am at last, alone-alone in the Queen City, friendless and penniless-alone in the place where I once possessed thousands-alone in my search for the only being who loves me, in this wide world-alone, with nothing to cheer me but my own faithful, resolute heart. When that fails me I shall find rest. Poor, beloved Emile!"

Overcome by weariness, anxiety, and fear, Leah covered her face with the coarse brown coverlet of her bed, and wept and sobbed in very bitterness of heart. At length, astonished at the withdrawal of its mother's smile, the child cried; and ceasing to weep, Leah clasped the helpless creature to her bosom in a fond, impassioned embrace. "God keep you, blessed one!" she said with deepest pathos. "Heaven shield you, my angel, from such sorrow as now fills your mother's heart! But I must be up and doing. Weeping will not accomplish the end and object of my coming."

Arising resolutely, she hastily performed their simple toilets, and descended the narrow stairway to the breakfast-room.

The plain repast was soon over, the coarse, garrulous inmates of the inn departed, and Leah with her child sat alone in the ill-furnished reception-room. She had sent a wiry-looking little negro boy for the proprietor, and was awaiting his appearance. Suddenly a thump, thump, thump, sounded along the narrow entry, and a short, red-faced, bald-headed, pompous looking old man, with a wooden leg, stood before her.

"Madam," he said, bowing obsequiously, "is it yourself that desired my presence? Cricket told me-we call that limber-looking little nigger Cricket-that a lady desired to see me in the drawing-room."

"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" said Leah, with difficulty repressing a smile excited by the grotesque appearance of the man. "I desired to see the proprietor."

"Exactly so, madam, and my name is Michael Moran, the proprietor of the Good Cheer House these twenty years."

"And have you remained in the Queen City during all these dreadful months of shelling?" said Leah, whose heart was at once brightened by the hope that she might gather some desired information from him.

"Oh, yes, child-beg pardon, madam, but, really, you look like a child. Michael Moran is not the man to desert the post of duty in times of danger. You see, madam"—and he pointed to the wooden stump—"you see, I had the misfortune to lose a member in the Mexican war. That wooden stump speaks yet of Michael Moran's bravery, and I am the same brave man to-day that I was in 'forty-seven, always ready to serve my country."

"Yes," replied Leah, "but you are too old to do much for your country now."

"Yes; that is to say, I am not able to take up arms, but then I have done valiant service by furnishing a very comfortable, thoroughly respectable wayside home for my country's unfortunate children. You see, madam, the Good Cheer House is known far and near as the place to find good food and lodging, at very reasonable prices. The soldiers-alas! I know what a soldier's life is," and the old man laid his fat, plump hand on his heart, "the soldiers, I say, find out the house of Michael Moran, and enjoy the good cheer he dispenses."

The old man, once started, would have continued his remarks ad infinitum, had not Leah bravely interrupted him by asking:

"Can you tell me, sir, if any of the refugees have yet returned?"

"A good many, madam. You see this infernal old shelling, although it's pretty pesky business, hasn't done much harm, after all. It battered down a few fine houses, and killed some men, but then I don't believe the Queen City will never surrender; and by Erin I hope it never will. If the soldiers, to a man, possessed the heart of Michael Moran, they would stand out till—"

"Can you tell me anything of the Le Grande family-Judge Le Grande, I mean?" again interrupted Leah bravely.

"The judge? Oh, yes; I think they went to France some months ago," replied Michael, with an air of profound satisfaction at possessing some slight acquaintance with so distinguished a man as the judge; and patting his knee with his plump hand, he continued, "You see the judge was not particularly a war man, and—"

"Do you know anything of the Levys?" again cut short the old inn-keeper's volubility.

"The Levys? Oh, yes; they fled long ago, and are now roving the face of the earth. The bombs well-nigh tore down old Levy's house, and I guess that will about kill him, as he is as stingy as a man well can be. If he had stayed by his suffering city, as Michael Moran has—"

"But Mrs. Levy was a widow," interrupted Leah, seeing that the old man was coining his information as he went, for the purpose of his own exaltation. "Her husband has been dead these many years."

Determined not to be baffled in this quiet way, Michael replied, "Well, this was another man, madam," and fearing Leah might discredit his fabricated story, he added, "I swear by Erin it was another man."

"Well, sir, can you tell me anything of the Mordecai family-Mr. Benjamin Mordecai?" said Leah, with a slightly tremulous voice.

The old man's eye brightened up, and he slapped his fat hand upon his knee with renewed force and rapidity, and replied, with an inquisitive squint in his face, "Are you a Jew?"

"I am a Jewess, sir," she said softly. "I feel an interest in my people. What can you tell me of the Mordecais."

"Well, child, then listen to me again. I say emphatically madam, now. Well, old Ben Mordecai he was a mighty rich man, had a bank many, many years, and lots and piles of gold. In fact, he was my banker at one time in my life, and to-day he can testify as to whether Michael Moran was or wasn't a thrifty man and the Good Cheer House a paying institution. Some years ago though, I moved my business to another bank, ahem!" Here the old man eyed Leah sharply, to see if these hints respecting his pecuniary status did not impress her profoundly. Then he continued, "Well, I was about stating-Well, where was I?" he said, with a puzzled look of regret, as though he had lost, or was about to lose, some cherished remark, so bewildering had been the thought in reference to his money matters, "where was I?"

"You were speaking of Mr. Mordecai's having left the Queen City," kindly suggested Leah, seeing the old man's embarrassment.

"Oh yes; my head gets a little muddy sometimes," said the inn-keeper apologetically, as he rubbed his rosy hand, this time briskly across the bald, sleek surface of his head. "Well, the Mordecais went away, and I am told a poor family moved into the old man's house to protect it. But the other week, a shell came whizzing into the city and tore off one corner of his fine house. I tell you, madam, the old man had a fine house, sure. And, madam, old Mordecai had a fine guirl once, and a few years ago she ran away and married some fellow, and it well-nigh broke the old man's heart. They ran away, and went somewhere; I think it was to the Island of Cuby. My banker told me this. You see, madam, my resources are yet such, that my banking business is quite burdensome to me. The Good Cheer House is a fine paying institution, sure, and—"

"But what of the unfortunate daughter?" inquired Leah faintly.

"Well, as I was about remarking, they went away to Cuby, and some months ago, perhaps a year or so, they caught the scamp out there, and smuggled him to this country, to be punished for a murder he committed some years ago, long before he was married."

Leah's heart throbbed wildly in her bosom, and every limb trembled like an aspen; but the old man did not detect her emotion, and continued:

"He will soon be tried here. I hear the friends of the dead man and the Mordecais are pushing up the trial. When the trial comes off, I guess the banker's family will come back."

"Is the unfortunate man confined in the old city prison here?" inquired Leah, with a faltering voice.

"Yes, madam. At one time a shell struck the old prison, and some of the inmates came nigh escaping, but they have had it repaired, and now it's pretty full, sure. If a bomb could strike it, and finish all the inmates at once, I guess that would suit them. I don't know why else they keep that jail full of thieves and murderers. I am too busy with my wayside house, giving cheer and comfort to my unfortunate countrymen, to bother much about the jail-birds. Yes, Michael Moran is too busy for that."

"What is my bill, sir?" said Leah faintly, oblivious of the wordy Michael's harangue, and thinking only of the prison-the dim, dark prison, where her husband was languishing. "I have no money but gold," she continued; "how much do I owe you for my food and lodging?"

"Gold!" repeated Michael with eager emphasis; and then, as if fearing to betray his characteristic love of the shining ore, he added with an air of indifference, "well, I guess, as you have nothing else, gold will do. you owe me—" and he named a certain sum. "Remarkable low price. Michael Moran hasn't the heart to be hard on a woman; and I know you'll be sorry, to your dyin' day, that you had to quit the Good Cheer House so soon."

Leah made no reply and evinced no regret, as she handed out, from her low supply of money, the amount demanded. Hurrying away from the inn, with the child in her arms, she hastened forward toward the dismal jail that, as she well remembered, was many streets away.

On the same bright October morning that opened the eyes of Leah in the Queen City, Emile Le Grande was pacing to and fro in his prison cell at an early hour. The confinement of so many long, weary months had left its impress on every feature; and pale and emaciated he scarcely resembled his former self. Before him, on a tin platter, was the coarse prison breakfast, as yet untasted. Restless and miserable, he trod backward and forward within the narrow limits of his cell, now glancing up at the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window so far above his head, then turning his ready ear to catch the sound of every human footstep that trod the corridors, or moved in the adjoining cells of this wretched place.