Despair had settled upon him, and death was a coveted visitor. "Is it myself," he muttered, as he convulsively ran his fingers through his hair, grown long from neglect, "or is it some other unfortunate wretch? Have I a wife and child on a far-off foreign shore, or is this thought a horrid, hideous nightmare, that comes to harrow my brain? O birds of the air, I envy you! O breezes that wander, I envy you! O sunlight, that streams through my window, give me my freedom, my freedom, I pray!"

Overpowered by these thoughts, the wretched man, enfeebled in mind as well as body, sank down upon the hard pallet, when the sound of footsteps was again heard along the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer to his cell door. Startled, Emile heard the bolt draw back once more and the door open, and the jailer stood before him.

"Le Grande," he said, "there's a woman below says she must see you-a beggar; shall I bring her up?"

"Yes, man, in the name of mercy, bring her up. I'd see a dog that would come to me in this lonely place. Bring her up, beggar or not, though I have nothing to give her."

The jailer withdrew, and Emile's heart beat wildly from the strange announcement that even a beggar wished to see him in his wretchedness now.

Again the footsteps resounded in the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer, to the cell.

Emile had risen from his pallet, and searching in his pocket said, "I haven't even so much as a fourpence for the poor old soul."

The cell door opened. Emile saw the jailer, and a woman with a child. His eye flashed bright, his heart leaped to his throat. The woman's face grew paler, and tottering forward she fell upon the prisoner's bosom, and gasped, "My husband!"

He said, "Thank God. My wife! my wife! my child!"



CHAPTER XXXIX.



IT were impossible to chronicle the half that transpired in the eventful days of those eventful years. Days seemed months, and months seemed years, in their sad, slow progress. When the heart is happy, Time's wing is light, but as every soul was sorrowful in those dark days, so the progress of the years was slow and dreary.

To none was the time so dark, and hopeless, as to Emile while he languished in prison, and to Leah, as she waited for an uncertain reunion. But the hopeless days had passed, and in unutterable joy the husband and wife clasped each other again. Now, she was never to leave him till the stern fiat of the law should decide his guilt or innocence. In an obscure abode, within the very shadow of the jail, Leah obtained a temporary home. The inadequacy of her means would have forbidden her more comfortable accommodations. But she desired only to dwell in obscurity, and be near, and with her husband, in his loneliness and misfortune. Without comment or observation, she passed in and out of the jail as frequently as the stern prison-law would allow. The jailer was a man who had occupied a higher position in life, and had sought this place to evade the merciless grasp of conscription. Often had he wondered at the pale, lovely face of this unhappy wife, and marked her tenderness toward the child that never seemed to weary the faithful arms that bore it so constantly about. "That woman has a history," the jailer often said to himself.

But the days passed, and ere Leah had been a month within the Queen City, the trial was at hand. Pressing measures in these awfully chaotic times, Mr. Mordecai was about to bring his culprit to justice, from fear that delay would prove dangerous, if not disastrous, to his purposes.

"My darling," said Emile to his wife, the day before the proposed trial, "I desire that you shall not be present during the investigation of to-morrow. I fear you may be subjected to insult and indignity which I cannot resent, being in bonds. Besides, dear, you can do me no good."

"Will my father be there, Emile?"

"I suppose that he will."

"Then I cannot be present. I feel that I could never meet my father's eye, unless I knew I had his forgiveness and his love still. But how can I leave you?"

"Remain quietly, dear, at your boarding-place, and await, hopefully, the end. I trust it will all be right. I know I am innocent," said Emile, with a forced effort at cheerfulness.

"Heaven grant they may find you guiltless! But oh! Emile, I fear, I fear, I fear something-I cannot tell you how it is, but from the day you were taken from our happy Cuban home, not a ray of hope has illuminated my heart."

"You must be brave, Leah, your sadness will weigh me down, and I cannot, must not go into the presence of my accusers with aught but a look of defiant innocence. Be brave, be cheerful, for my sake, and the sake of our innocent child."

"Can I see you during the trial?"

"I suppose not; but as it will consume but a few days at most, you can remain quietly at your lodgings till the end."

"The twilight is gathering in your window, Emile," said Leah, after a thoughtful silence. "I should have gone an hour ago; your supper will be late to-night, dear; but oh! I fear to leave you! It seems as though you were going to your burial, to-morrow. What will become of me? What will become of our helpless darling?"

Distracted by the plaintive words and agonized look of his wife, Emile said:

"Would you madden me, Leah? Have I not asked you to be brave, even unto the end? If you falter now, I am lost. My health and my strength are already gone. Only the consciousness of innocence sustains me. Leave me now. Sheer me with the hope of acquittal, and be brave as only a woman can be."

"Forgive me, Emile; forgive my weakness; and when we meet again, may the sunshine of a brighter, happier day, dawn over us. Good-by, my own Emile, my own beloved husband," and the wretched wife laid her head upon the true, innocent heart of Emile, and wept her last burning tears of sorrow.



CHAPTER XL.



FROM the day that Leah first found her husband in the prison, and observed the coarse, uninviting fare that was served to the prisoners, she had daily prepared his food herself, and supplied it, too, from her scanty purse. By the permission of the jailer, this food was received twice a day from the hands of a trusty negro woman, known to many of the prison inmates as Aunt Dinah.

On this same evening when Leah parted so sadly from her husband, she went at once to her lodging place, and quickly prepared the tempting evening meal. After she had gone, Emile, once more alone, crouched down in a corner of his shadowy cell, and was lost in sorrowful revery, till the jailer, unheeded, opened the cell-door and handed in a basket, saying:

"Le Grande, here's a supper for a king. Cheer up, man, and eat it. Old Dinah brought it from your wife, and she says the bread is 'perticklar fine.'"

"I want no supper to-night, jailer. But I'll keep it, for my wife's sake."

"Old Dinah said you must eat, whether you craved food or not; said you must eat to be strong." The jailer deposited the small basket that contained the tempting brown buns and some cold slices of ham, and departed.

For a moment Emile still remained crouched in his corner, and listened to the dying footsteps of the retreating jailer; then rousing himself, he moved forward, and lifting up the basket, said:

"For love's sake, I'll taste the bread, not from hunger. Heaven knows when I shall feel hunger again." The daylight was nearly gone, but enough light penetrated the dismal cell to reveal the contents of the basket. Taking up a soft brown loaf, he turned it in his hand, then laid it down. Again he picked it up, and said, "It is so nice, for love's sake I'll taste it." Then he broke it gently, and there fell into his hand from it a small piece of brown paper. Astonished, he opened it, and read these words:

"An unknown friend wishes to help you. Meet me at midnight at the prison gate. I'll save you. Skeleton keys and wires will enable you to escape, Find them in the buns. As you value your life and liberty meet me."

"What means this?" said the terrified prisoner. "Is Heaven kind at last?" and then he curiously and cautiously opened the bread that, sure enough, yielded up the secreted appliances for effecting his escape. In astonishment, even terror, Emile held these unlawful little contrivances in his hand for a time, eyeing them curiously, and then half-fearfully tucked them away in his bosom.

"Who is this unknown friend, I wonder, that so desires my escape?" pondered Emile, as he watched the darkening twilight as it withdrew the last vestige of daylight from his cell. "Can it be Leah who has done this, my own desolate Leah? Can she save me at last? She upon whose heart I have innocently brought such sorrow and disappointment? Alas! alas! dear heart! But should it prove some one else, how can I leave my wife and child? What if it should prove to be an enemy trying to betray me into further trouble? And yet I do not fear. This dreary cell has made me tired of life, and death were welcome if it comes in the struggle for freedom! No, I cannot stay; I'll leave this cursed place, though I be betrayed again-leave it, though my escape may take me heaven knows where-leave it, and hope a brighter future is bringing me prosperity and a peaceful reunion with those who are so dear to me. Stay I cannot, I dare not. My tormentors are insatiable, my innocence disbelieved, my friends gone; money I have none. I shrink from the coming ordeal. The promise of freedom is offered me. I accept it.

"The clock is striking midnight. It is dark, very dark, little keys; but perhaps you will not fail me. Now I leave this cursed place; yes, leave it, I hope, to walk the earth again in freedom. Blast my accusers!" whispered the excited prisoner as he softly applied the mysterious, slender-looking key to the heavy lock. "Ha! how the lock yields to this delicate spring! Softly! softly! or I may disturb some sleeping inmate! God knows how many weary vigils are kept in this wretched abode. I'll tread this narrow corridor no more, I hope. Heavens! The outer bolt, too, withdraws, and God's blue dome and bright stars are above me! I am free from these cursed walls! Now the gate yields, too! I am free! free! Thank God, free once more!"

As Emile emerged from the prison-gate, and it swung noiselessly back to its place, he gazed anxiously about, and at once descried a dark, half-bent figure of a man approaching him. His heart trembled.

"Mars' Emile," said a low voice, as the unknown figure approached close to him, "Mars' Emile Le Grande, don't you know me? I am here as I promised."

Affrighted at this seeming apparition, Emile shrank back, saying, "Stand back, man or devil, whatever you may be! Who are you? What do you want?" he continued, as the unknown figure essayed to lay hold of his arm.

"Hush! hush! We may be overheard. Don't be afraid. I come to befriend you. Mars' Emile, don't you know me?" said the little old man, as he pushed back the slouched hat from his face, and peered into Emile's eyes. "Don't you know old Peter Martinet?"

"What! old Uncle Peter, who carried the 'Courier' so long ago?" said Emile in astonishment.

"De very same, Mars' Emile. I'se de same old darkey now dat I was years ago, only not quite so spry. You see I'se crippled wid de rheumatiz a little. But come along wid me, man; don't wait here any longer; we may be found out."

"Is my wife with you?" whispered Emile eagerly.

"La, no, man; your wife knows nuffin ob dis plot. We must hurry."

And can I not see her, Peter?"

"No, man, if you wish to escape de bloodhounds dat are on your track. You had better be quick, too."

"I must see my wife."

"Be brave, man; be brave. Why did you leave de jail, if you didn't wish to 'scape? Come along faster."

"But where are you going?" replied Emile, as he mechanically followed the hobbling guide.

"Here, this way, follow me. I'll tell you by'mby;" and then halting within the shadow of a protecting building, the old man stooped to rub the afflicted limbs, and said softly, "You see, Mars' Emile, I'se kept my eye on you, eber since dey brought you here to jail. I'se nebber left the Queen City, and nebber will, an' I 'tended all de w'ile, dat you should git away, if you wanted to. I'se made plan after plan, and dey would not work, but at last I got help from inside, an' den I got de keys; den I knew you was safe, if you could only git 'em. So I hired ole Dinah to make some extry bread and slip into your basket after your wife had fixed your supper. Dat was all I could do. I heard de trial was to come off to-morrow, and but for de rheumatiz, de keys would have been ready a week ago. You know, Mars' Emile, old Peter part Affikin, and what he can't do, no udder nigger need try. He, he, he!"

"But where are you going?" interrupted Emile.

"Well, Mars' Emile, der's a blockader lying off de Bar. I'se gwine to take you to it." Emile shuddered.

"Nebber fear. If you stays on land, dey'll git you, shure, an' I knows ebry foot ob de harbor as well as I do de city. Ain't Peter Martinet been here eber since the Revolution War? No man here knows de harbor better dan me, tripedoes or no tripedoes. Dey can't blow me up, dat's shure. Come, let's go, be quick, and be sly too."

Emile followed as one in a dream. Not daring, or caring, to question his guide, until they were safely on the edge of a pier that was several feet above the sea.

"What now?" he said.

"All right. I have a bateau tied down da, waitin' for us. Her's de rope to slide down. But as you'se afeerd, mebbe I'd better go down fust. Here goes! I'se afeerd of nuffin, 'specially in de harbor." Emile peered over the edge of the pier, and shuddered, as he saw the dark figure disappear below.

"All right agin, safe and sound. Come on. Mind yer hold. Be brave, man, don't lose yer courage now, or you may be a jail-bird de rest of yer days. He, he, he!"

Stimulated to action by this stinging remark of old Peter, Emile seized the rope, glided slowly down the wall, and landed safely in the boat below.

"Now I guess we's safe; no one can git us now," chuckled old Peter, as he grasped the oars and rowed away.

Emile made no reply, and for a time the plash of the oars was the only sound that broke the stillness.

"Do you know that they'll receive me?" at length said Emile, as he saw the shore receding.

"Oh, yes; more'n once have I carried men to the blockaders-some who didn't want to fight, and some who had friends on the udder side. Dey allus paid ole Peter well, and he nebber fail to git 'em away safe. He, he, he."

"Why did you do this for me, Peter? For me who had scarcely a friend in the world; for me, who can repay you in nothing but gratitude?" asked Emile with emotion.

"Oh, old Peter don't always work for money; sometime he do for love. It's for love this time, Mars' Emile."

"How far is the vessel away, Peter?"

"Five mile from de pier; you see de lights ob de vessel yonder, sir."

Emile was silent, thinking of the desolate wife and unfortunate child whom he was leaving farther behind at every stroke of the oars.

"I must send a letter back by you, Peter; promise me that my wife shall get it."

"I promise, Mars' Emile. But be brave, man, be brave; remember you'se a free man now; freedom mighty sweet, Mars' Emile. I'se ben free dese twenty years, eber sence old Marster Martinet died. He gin me freedom. Ship ahoy, here we are," said the old negro, as he came alongside of the grim iron-clad, that stood like a huge rock in mid-ocean. Then the old man blew a shrill whistle through his hands that penetrated to the inmost recess of the man-of-war.

"Halloo! Is it you, Peter?" screamed back the mate, as he swung a huge lantern over the side of the vessel and looked down into the water below. "What brings you now, old humpback?"

"A friend, a man, a recruit to your sarvice, if ye wish. Take him, an' do as you please."

"Won't you come aboard, old Peter?" added the jolly tar, aroused to receive the escaping prisoner. "It's been so long since we saw you, we did not know but a shell had picked you up. Come aboard, General, we'll show you some more bombs."

"Not this time, cap'n, my rheumatiz is rather bad for so much climbin.' I'll jes' wait down here for a letter. Ole Peter Martinet ain't feered of fishes. He, he, he!"

Emile's letter was written and handed to old Peter, who was soon again steering landward. When the sun shone again in the Queen City, old Peter was hobbling along his daily round of duty, singing occasionally in his own peculiar way, and wearing an expression as innocent as though the night-time had been an undisturbed season of peaceful repose and beautiful dreams.

A letter found upon the door-way of Leah's lodgings, addressed to her, was picked up and handed to her about the hour that the jail was thrown into a tumult of consternation over the discovery that Emile Le Grande had escaped.

How and whence this letter came was ever a mystery. "U. S. BLOCKADER "THUNDERBOLT." "Two o'clock A. M.

"BELOVED LEAH: The die is cast, that divides us again. Fate, that has so long seemed cruel, has again been kind. Unlooked-for, unhoped-for aid reached me in my prison-cell, and enabled me to escape. I know I am innocent of crime; Heaven knows it; but I feared my tormentors. Those who sought me on a foreign shore, would certainly move earth and sky to prove my guilt. I hope for a brighter day, when we shall be reunited in peace and happiness. I could do nothing for you, were I to stay and brave the storm that awaits me. It might engulf me. I go, with the hope of a bright future yet. Whither I shall go I know not. Maybe to France, where my father has gone. I have nothing to remain in this country for but yourself; and I cannot, and dare not stay near you. Heaven shield and keep you and my child till I can send you succor! If I live, it will come, though it cost my life to obtain it. I dare not look ahead; but be hopeful and brave, faithful, loving Leah, and patiently await a brighter day. When this wretched war is ended, if I cannot come to you, you shall come to me. Living, longing, hoping, for that coming time, with a thousand embraces I am, and shall ever be,

"Your devoted EMILE.

"My time is short, I can write no more."

Bravely, calmly, Leah read this fatal letter; and then, with a fortitude and heroism peculiar to her own glorious people, she folded it, and placed it upon her heart, so torn by sorrow and suspense. After the first shock of disappointment was over, she turned her thoughts to the formidable question, how she should earn bread for herself and her child; and when once her plans were made, she carried them out resolutely, in poverty, weakness, and obscurity. Of the days, months, and years that passed over her heroic head, with their trials, struggles, disappointments, tears, heart-aches, and agonies, before death brought relief, this record, in pity, is silent.



CHAPTER XLI.



THE war-cloud rolled away. The dark, wild, sanguinary cloud, that had swept with such devastating fury over a land where war was deemed impossible, was passed. The roar of cannon ceased, the rattle of musketry was no more heard in the land. Again the nation was at peace, undismembered, triumphant. Once more its proud flag floated, unmolested and gay, from every rampart and flag-staff in the wide domain. On the one hand, there were bonfires and pealing bells, huzzahs, greetings, congratulations, rejoicings over the termination of the conflict, while on the other, sorrow and mourning, lamentation and despair, filled the homes of a people, whose hearts were bleeding, and whose hopes were crushed. All, all was gone. Only the cypress wreath was left, to remind of loved ones slain, and beggary, want, and famine to point with ghastly fingers to the past. The sweet sunshine fell lovingly again upon that worn section of the land, to find its fertile fields deserted, its homes destroyed, and its people cast down. Here and there, everywhere, far and wide, in many States, where the tread of the monster War was heaviest, only the silent chimneys and the neglected gardens gave token that the spot was once the homestead of a happy, happy family. Deem this no sensational record to elicit sympathy from stranger hearts. Only the sympathy of heaven avails in man's extremity; and that sympathy, thank God, his war-worn people have had.

This same memorable time that brought peace to the nation with such unexpected suddenness, found hundreds, even thousands of people, still refugees. Then many, regathering their shattered hopes and courage, sought their former homes. Many, alas! dispirited by loss of friends and fortune, dared not turn their sorrowful eyes backward, but chose rather to remain quietly where the final crash had found them. Refugee! O reader, kind or careless reader, think not lightly or scornfully of the word.

So far as possible, the scattered denizens of the Queen City had returned to their scarred homes. Many who at the time of their departure counted their thousands, and even millions, came back in comparative beggary. Yet back, back, back, they came, who could, to this mutilated Mecca of their hearts.

Mr. Mordecai again occupied his palatial home, which had survived the wreck of bombardment, and, unlike hundreds of his unfortunate fellow-citizens, he was unimpoverished. Aside from the good fortune that had attended his financial arrangements in this country during the period of conflict, he had also a banking connection in England, that would alone have made him a rich man.

So back to his home Mr. Mordecai came, not in poverty and want, not in sackcloth and mourning for the slain, and yet not in joy or contentment. From the fearful day when he lost his beautiful daughter, his heart had been darkened and his hopes destroyed, and through the eventful years that had slipped on since he last beheld her face, a feeling of unrelenting bitterness had possessed his soul. Always angry with Leah and with the man who had led her into disobedience, he now felt still more bitter toward him, as he deemed him a felon, a murderer, unpunished and unforgiven. The change of place and scene, the rushing and hurrying of events during the years of refugee life, had tended somewhat to crowd from his mind the thoughts of his lost daughter; but now that he was back again, back in the old home, where every niche and corner, flower and shrub, were associated with her memory, the father was miserable indeed-miserable because he well knew that somewhere upon the broad earth, Leah, if living at all, was living in loneliness and dreariness, in poverty and sorrow.



CHAPTER XLII.



THE first spring of peace gave place to summer, a summer memorable for its intense heat. One afternoon, toward the latter part of July, clouds dark and angry overcast the sky, and peals of thunder and flashes of lightning threatened a terrific storm. Pedestrians hurried homeward, and man and beast sought safety under shelter. The waters of the quiet harbor, tossed by rude winds, grew angry and rose in white-capped breakers, that broke against the wharves, piers, and fortresses, as far as the eye could see. Sea-gulls screamed and flew wildly about at this ominous appearance of the heavens, while the songsters of the woods, and the pigeons of the barn-yard, sought shelter from the approaching tempest. At night-fall the rain descended in torrents.

Safely sheltered in his comfortable home, Mr. Mordecai sat for an hour or more, watching, from his library window, the fury of the storm. The tall, graceful cedars and olive trees that adorned the front and side gardens of his home, were swaying in the wind which rudely snatched from their trellises the delicate jessamine and honeysuckle vines that lent such delicious odor to the evening winds. It tore the flowers from their stems, and the rain pelted them into the earth in its fury. Leaves were whisked from their branches, and blown out of sight in a twinkle. A weak-hinged window-shutter of the attic was ruthlessly torn away and pitched headlong into the street. All this Mr. Mordecai watched in amazement, and then, as if some sudden apparition of thought or of sight had appeared before him, he turned from the window with a shudder, and said:

"This is a devilish wild night. I'll drop the curtain."

Seating himself then, by a brightly-shining lamp-the Queen City gas works had been destroyed by the shelling guns-he clasped his arms across his breast, and looked steadily up toward the ticking clock upon the mantel. Thus absorbed in reverie, he sat for an hour; and was only disturbed then by a loud rapping at the front door.

"By Jerusalem! who can be out this wild night?"

The rapping sounded again, louder than before.

"Mingo!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Ah! the dog is free now, and only answers my summons at his will. Good boy, though."

The rapping was repeated.

"I must go myself. Who can be so importunate, on this dark, wretched night? No robber would be so bold!" and grasping the lamp, he glided softly toward the front door. He turned the bolt cautiously, and opening the door a little, peered out.

"Come, Mordecai, open the door," said a friendly voice without. "Do you suspect thieves this foul night? No wonder."

Mr. Mordecai opened the door wider and saw Rabbi Abrams, and a man so disguised that he could not tell whether it was any one he knew.

"What do you want, my friend?" he said kindly.

"Want you to go with us, Mordecai," replied the rabbi, drawing closer his cloak, which the wind was trying to tear away.

"Go where?" asked Mr. Mordecai in consternation. "Only the devils themselves could stand, such a night as this."

"Come, be quiet, my friend. I am summoned by this unknown friend, to go with him to see a certain person who must see me, must see you, too. That's all I know. Come along."

"Don't wait, my friend, time is precious," said the muffled voice of the unknown man.

Mr. Mordecai frowned and shrugged his shoulders dubiously.

"Fear no evil, my friend, but come with me," continued the stranger in a reassuring tone.

"The storm will not destroy us, Mordecai; I have tried its fury so far," said the rabbi. "Come on."

Reluctantly Mr. Mordecai obeyed, and hastily preparing himself for the weather, turned out into the darkness and the storm, with the rabbi and the guide.

Onward they went, struggling against the wild wind and rain, and few words were uttered by either as they proceeded on their unknown way. At length the guide stopped suddenly, at the corner of a lonely, obscure street, and said:

"There, gentlemen; in that low tenement opposite, where a light gleams from the window, you will find the person who desires to see you. Hasten to him. I shall be back before you leave. Ascend the stairway and turn to the left. Open the door yourself; there will be no one inside to admit you." Having uttered these words, the guide disappeared in the darkness, and Mr. Mordecai and the rabbi were left alone.

"What can this mean, Rabbi Abrams?" said Mr. Mordecai in a low voice, greatly excited; "suppose it should prove some plot to decoy us into trouble? I shall not go a step farther; we may be robbed or even murdered in that miserable place. You know this is Dogg's Alley, and it never was a very respectable locality. What say you?"

"I feel no fear, Friend Mordecai, though I admit the summons is mysterious. If you will follow, I will lead the way. My curiosity impels me onward."

"But there's no watchman on this lonely beat, on this wild night, that we could summon in a moment of necessity; no street-lamp either, you see. It's dark, fearfully dark! Had we not better wait till to-morrow?"

"No, come on. I am fond of adventure. Let's see a little farther into this mystery;" and so saying, the rabbi boldly crossed the slippery street, Mr. Mordecai following timidly behind. They were soon standing in the narrow door-way that led up the stairs. They ascended slowly, and turning to the left, they discerned through the crevice beneath the door, a faint light. To this chamber they softly groped their way, and tapped gently on the door. No reply.

"Shall we go in?" whispered the banker. "This is an awfully suspicious place."

"Yes, come on; I do not feel afraid."

Gently turning the bolt, they opened the door; the lamp upon the table by the window revealed the contents of the apartment.

In a corner, upon a rude bed, lay a man, a negro, evidently sick, whose widely glaring eyes were turned upon the door, as if in expectation of their coming. Slowly lifting his hand as they entered, the sick man beckoned the gentlemen toward him. They drew near.

"Sir," he said, and so faintly that his voice did not rise above a whisper, "I'm glad you come. I was 'feerd the rain would keep you away." Then he grasped the hand of the rabbi with his cold, clammy fingers, and with an intense gaze of the wild eyes, said again, "Do you know me, Marster Abrams? Tell me, do you know me?"

The rabbi looked earnestly at him and after a moment's pause said dubiously:

"Is it old Uncle Peter Martinet, the carrier of the 'Courier'?"

"De-same-marster, de-werry-same. But-de-end-ob-ole-Peter-is-nigh- at-hand, marster-wery nigh-at-hand! Las'-winter-was hard-an'-w'en de-work-ob de-Curyer-stop-it-went-mighty-hard-on-ole-Peter. De-rheumatiz-marster! De rheumatiz? Bref-so-short! Doctor-say-it's-de-rheumatiz on-de-heart now. Mebbe so-marster-but-ole-Peter-mos'-done-now."

"Can I do anything for you, Peter?" asked the rabbi kindly. "What will you have?"

At these words, the dying man, for he was dying, extended his other hand to Mr. Mordecai, and clasping his, said:

"Yes, marster-I want-somethin'. I-want-you-and-Mr. Mordecai-to-listen-to me; listen-to-me-a-moment. I-have- something-to-to-tell-you."

"Certainly we will," they replied gently, observing with pain the difficulty of the dying man's utterance. "What do you wish to say?"

"You-see, Marster-Abrams, I-am-dying. Ole-Peter-mos-done. I-can-not- go-before God with-the-sin-upon-my-soul-that-now-distresses-me. I must tell it-for-I die."

Here the old man strangled, from the effort made to communicate his story, and the rabbi, gently raising his head, administered a spoonful of water. Then, after a moment's pause, he continued:

"Ise-been-a-great-sinner, to keep my-mouf-shut-so long; but-I could not-help it. Ole Peter-was feered-but now-I'se feered-no more. Soon-I'll be wid-de great God-who has-know'd my secret too-an' I feel-He will-forgive me-if-I-'fess it-'fore-I die. I know-he-will, marster-de Spirit has-tole'-me so."

"Confess what?" inquired the rabbi softly, supposing that the old man's utterances were but the ravings of delirium.

"A secret-marster; a secret-dat-I have-kep'-so long-it has become-a sin-an awful sin-dat has burnt-me in here," placing his feeble hand on his heart, "like coals-of-fire. Listen to me."

"I knows-how-Mars'-Mark-Abrams got-killed, an'-has-known it-ever since-dat-dark-Jinnewary-night-w'en he-was-shot—"

"Merciful—"

"Hush! listen-to-me-my-bref-werry-short," he said, motioning the rabbi to silence, who had turned pale with consternation at the mere mention of his son's name.

"Hush! Mars'-Mark-was not-murdered-as-everybody-thought-but-was- killed-by-de pistol-he-carried-in his-pocket. It-was-werry dark dat-night-as you-may-remember. He-was-passin'-tru'-de-Citadel Square-to cut-off de walk-comin'-from Crispin's-he said, an'-in-de dark-he-stumble-an' fall-an' de-pistol-go-off-an' kill him. In de-early-morning-jus'-'for-day-as-I was-hurryin'-aroun' wid-my-paper, I was-carryin' de Curyer den-bless-de-Lord, I came-upon-him-an' 'fore God-he was-mos' dead. He call-me-and tell me-how he-was-hurt, an' beg-me to run-for his-father, for-you, Marster-Abrams. He ask-me-to pick up-de-pistol-an' run for-you-quick. W'en I foun'-de pistol-I ask-him-another question. He-said-nothin'. I knew-he-was-dead. I was-skeered- awful-skeered-an'-somethin'-tole me-to-run-away. I did run-as-fast as-I-could-an' w'en-I was-many-squars-off, I foun' de-pistol-in my-hand. Dat-skeered me-agin. I stop-a minit-to think. I-was-awful skeered-marster-an' den I 'cluded I jus' keep-de secret, an' de-pistol-too-for-fear-people-might-'cuse-me ob de-murder. An'-so I has-kept both-till now. See-here's de pistol-an' I'se-told you-der truth;" and the old man felt about under his pillow for the weapon.

With difficulty he drew it out, and handing it to the rabbi, said:

"Take it-it's-haunted-me long-enough. It's jes' as I found-it-dat-night-only-it's-mighty rusty. I'se had-it-buried-a long time-for-safe-keepin'.

W'en-Mars'-Emile-Le Grande-was-here in-prison-'cused of-dis-crime,-I often-wanted to tell-my-secret den-but-was-still-afeerd. I-knew he-was-not guilty-an' I determined-he should-not be-punished. So I helped-him-to 'scape-jail. I-set-him-free. I take-him-in de night time-to one-of de-blockade-wessels-off de Bar. W'ere-he go from dere, God knows-Ole Peter-don't. Now, Marster Abrams, I'se done. Before-God-dis is-de truf. I'se told-it-at-las'. Tole all-an' now-I die-happy.

"A-little-more-water-Marster Abrams-if you-please, an' den Ole-Peter-will-soon-be-at-rest."

Silently granting this last request, the rabbi turned suddenly to observe the entrance of the guide, who by this time returned.

Not a word was spoken a he entered.

By the side of the table, where lay the pistol, the rabbi and Mr. Mordecai both sat down, each in turn eyeing the deadly weapon with unuttered horror.

The dying negro's confession had filled them both with sorrow and amazement. The earnestness of his labored story impressed them at once with its undeniable truth; and with hearts distressed and agitated, they sat in silence by the bed-side, till a struggle arrested their attention. Looking up once more they both caught the voiceless gaze of the earnest eye, which seemed unmistakably to say, "I have told the truth. Believe my story. Farewell." Then the old carrier's earthly struggles were forever ended.



CHAPTER XLIII.



THE strange, almost incredible, and yet evidently truthful confession of old Peter, fell upon the heart of Mr. Mordecai with a weight that broke its stubbornness, and at once softened his wrath toward his unhappy and unfortunate daughter.

The thought that she was alone in the world, alone since the mysterious disappearance of her husband from his Cuban home-alone and undoubtedly struggling with life for existence, grew upon him with maddening intensity. His heart became tender, and he resolved to seek her face, and once again assure her of his love. Immediately carrying out this good resolve, he sought her, first in Cuba, but did not find her; and to his bitter disappointment, all his subsequent efforts proved unavailing. Months passed, and grieving from day to day over the unfilled hope of meeting her and atoning for his severity by a manifold manifestation of tenderness, Mr. Mordecai lived on in sorrow as the months slowly passed by.

He little dreamt that, not many leagues from his door, his lovely daughter was performing, in weakness, in sorrow, even broken-hearted, the wearisome task that gave daily bread to herself and child.

And yet Leah had often seen her father, so changed by sorrow since she last embraced him; seen him only to creep away into deeper obscurity, dreading to confront his anger, and determined not to meet his coldness. And so changed indeed was she, that not a single soul among the scores she often passed, and who were once friends, had ever suspected her identity. Such were the workings of sorrow and misfortune.

In quiet Bellevue street in the Queen City, still stood the only monument erected there during the war, that was worthy of perpetuation. It was the Bellevue Street Home for the Friendless. During the war, this institution was known as the Bellevue Street Hospital, and there many brave soldiers perished, and many recovered from ghastly wounds under the kindly care and attention of its efficient managers.

After the first shock of her grief was passed, Eliza Heartwell Marshall had been called to the position of matron in this institution of mercy.

It should be mentioned that, by the death of a maternal uncle during her married life, this noble woman had inherited a handsome estate, consisting largely of valuable lands upon some of the fertile islands adjacent to the coast.

Much of this land the government had appropriated to its own uses, during the war; but upon the restoration of peace, by dint of skilful negotiation the rightful owner had regained possession of the confiscated property.

Thus Mrs. Marshall was enabled to carry on her noble work of charity, after the carnage had ceased and the hospital was no longer needed for the soldiers. So, endowing the Bellevue Hospital from her own private funds, she transformed it at once into a Home for receiving those who, by reason of misfortune, were unable to help themselves.

Here, during the two years of peace that had smiled upon the desolate waste left by the war, she had toiled, prayed, and wept over the sufferings of humanity, till she was deemed, and rightly so, an angel of mercy.

Time passed on. Though the Queen City had not regained its former prosperity the Home prospered. Its charitable walls were full, crowded even to their utmost capacity; its business pressing, its necessities great.

"Miss Lizzie," said Maum Isbel one day, as the vigilant matron was performing her accustomed round of duty, "Mrs. Moses, de lady who do de small washin', have sent word that she is sick an' can't do it dis week. De chile who came said she were wery sick, an' would like to see you."

"Do you know where she lives, Maum Isbel?"

"No. 15 Market street, ma'am, de chile said; please remember."

"Get me another woman, Maum Isbel, to fill her place; the work cannot stop. I will go at once to see her. Poor creature! She has looked pale and delicate ever since she sought work at the Home."

Without delay, Mrs. Marshall hurried out on her mission of charity, and tarried not until she stood confronting a low, miserable looking tenement house on Market street. Her knock at the designated door was answered by an untidy, rough-looking woman, who came into the narrow dingy entry, and after eyeing the matron sharply, said coarsely:

"What do you want?"

"Does Mrs. Moses live here?"

"Yes; but she's very poorly to-day; ain't been up at all. Indeed she's been poorly for a week or more."

"Can I see her?"

"Yes, come in; she's in thar," pointing to a small room cut off from the end of the narrow hall-way.

Mrs. Marshall approached the small room, and answered the summons of a feeble voice that said, "Come in."

On entering the room, she found the woman prostrated on a low, comfortless bed; pale, feeble, and exhausted. By the bed-side, on a chair, were a phial and a Hebrew prayer-book.

"I am so glad you have come," said the sick woman, "I am so weak this morning. You see I coughed all night. I felt that I must see you. I hope it gave you no trouble to come."

"None whatever. Why have you not sent for me before?"

"I hoped, from day to day, to be strong enough to do the washing for the Home again. But instead of growing better, I have grown worse daily. Heaven only knows what I'll do when I cannot work."

"Where is your little daughter?"

"Gone to the baker's, to get me a warm bun. She fancied I could eat one, dear child!"

Touched by these surroundings of poverty and distress, Mrs. Marshall could scarcely repress her tears; but said:

"If you will allow me, I'll give you some brandy; that will revive you."

"Indeed, I have none; I used the last drop yesterday."

"Then I beg that you will allow me to remove you to the Home till you are recovered. There, under Dr. Gibbs's kind care, you may convalesce rapidly. Here, you are suffering for every comfort, and cannot hope to recover soon. I beg you to go."

For a moment, the sick woman made no reply, but her lips trembled with emotion, and at length she said sadly:

"I fear I shall never be well again."

"Oh, yes; be cheerful. I promise that you shall want for nothing at the Home."

"Can my child go with me there?"

"Yes, you will need her there, as you do here."

"But I have no money."

"There is none needed. Just promise to go, and I'll see that you are removed at once."

Reluctantly and tearfully Mrs. Moses at last yielded to the matron's entreaties, repeatedly assuring her that she would endeavor to pay her, when she should regain her health and strength.

Mrs. Marshall remained a while, awaiting the return of the little child. At length she came bounding in with a bright, happy face, holding aloft the coveted bun, and exclaiming wildly, "See, mamma! here it is, nice and warm. Eat it, mamma!"

The matron then departed, promising to make immediate preparations for the mother's speedy removal.



CHAPTER XLIV.



IT was only two months after the kind matron of the Bellevue Home had the invalid Mrs. Moses removed to its hospitable walls, before she saw, with regret, that the life she sought to save was fast passing away. The delicate frame was rapidly yielding to the devastation of consumption. All the skill and attention of kind Dr. Gibbs had proved unavailing. It was too evident that she must soon die.

On the afternoon of a soft June day, succeeding a terrible night with the invalid, Mrs. Marshall had withdrawn for a moment's rest from the fatigue of watching and nursing. Her slumber was soon broken, however, by Maum Isbel, who, unceremoniously thrusting her head into her chamber, said in an excited tone:

"Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie! Mis' Moses says she would like to see you at once. She seem werry bad to me, ma'am, werry bad indeed; she's so weak!"

"Hasn't the doctor come yet, maum Isbel? I have been expecting him this hour," replied Mrs. Marshall, arising and preparing to go at once to her patient.

"Not yet, ma'am."

"If he comes, send him in at once; but I feel sure he can do the poor woman no good now. Her life is nearly done." Maum Isbel sighed, and dropped a tear at these ominous words; and then she shambled along into ward number two, to inspect the washing that Mark Antony Briggs, a colored man of her acquaintance, was doing there. There she grew garrulous over the demerits of the work, and soon forgot her emotion and her sympathy for the invalid. In the meantime, Mrs. Marshall hastened to the sick-room, and softly entered.

By the bedside sat the pale-faced little child, holding her mother's hand, and bestowing upon it kiss after kiss of fervent love.

"Mamma, here is good Mrs. Marshall come in again. Mamma! mamma! wake up," said the little girl as Mrs. Marshall entered.

Startled by the sound, the sick woman roused from her uneasy slumber, and turned her heavenly dark eyes, so lustrous and bright, full upon the face of the matron. Her eyes for an instant flashed, then filled with tears, and dropped again. There was a strange, mysterious expression in that one gaze, that thrilled the heart of Eliza, and filled it with sorrow. "What can I do for you now, dear Mrs. Moses?" she said with feeling. "The doctor will be here soon."

Lifting her emaciated arms, her body shaking convulsively, the invalid said, in a tone shrill with emotion, "Come here! Come near to me, Lizzie Heartwell! Come to these dying arms of mine! I can hold out no longer!" Confounded at these singular words, and the more singular demonstration of an undemonstrative woman, Mrs. Marshall shrank back, and the invalid continued, "Come to me; nearer! nearer! I can hold out no longer. God knows how hard I've struggled! Lizzie Heartwell, don't you know me? Have you never suspected your long-lost Leah? Have my disgrace and degradation wiped out my identity? In Heaven's name, is there not one trace of resemblance left to the friend who loved you so much in our happy school days? O Lizzie Heartwell, I am indeed your long-lost Leah! Your unfortunate, heart-broken Leah! Your forsaken, despised Leah! Your dying, dying Leah Mordecai! Is there no trace left, not one? Here, see this-this hated scar. Do you know me now, dear Lizzie?"

Lizzie, who, terrified at these startling words, had stood like a statue, sprang forward when the pale hand pushed back the hair and revealed the scar, exclaiming:

"Is it you, my long-loved Leah, my own Leah Mordecai? In pity's name, why this disguise? Why this cruel deception upon me, upon your faithful Lizzie, whose heart, like your own, has been wounded and bleeding so long? Tell me, dearest, tell me while you can; tell Lizzie Heartwell again of your sorrows."

"Am I not dying, Lizzie?" inquired Leah with a shudder, "I fear I cannot tell you all. My time is so short. But I could not die without one uttered word of thankfulness, without one kiss of recognition and love! This, Lizzie dear, is the end of my unhappy life; this the end of the wrong-doing of others; this the end of disobedience-the bitter, bitter end. It's been a hard, hard struggle, Lizzie, between pride and love, for me to throw off my disguise; but love has at length triumphed, love for this sweet child," she said, laying her hand tenderly upon her little daughter's head. "I could not die, and leave her entirely to strangers. When I have told you all I can of my story, then I shall hope for mercy from you for this child. It has seemed so dark and fearful to me, this untried, unknown life into which I must so soon enter! God knows how I tremble in His presence."

"Have you tried to pray, dear Leah?"

"Yes, dear; but still all was dark, dark, dark-is dark yet."

"Be calm, dear, and let me listen to the story of your life. Tell me what steps have led you at last to this strange end. Be calm, and tell me slowly. I would know it all."

"Be patient then, and listen. I'll keep nothing back. If God gives me strength to tell it, I'll tell you all." Then faintly she began her sad narrative, and unreservedly unfolded the story of her life, from the unfortunate day of her marriage, on through each succeeding year of sorrow, till she came at last, tremulously, to its sad close. Calmly she told how her father had discarded her; of the removal of her husband's father to France, where his family still remained; of Emile's misfortune, persecution, and forced desertion, of his innocence; of her hopeless longing to see him; of her despair as the conviction settled upon her that she could not hope to hear from him again; of the harrowing suspense that had slowly eaten out her life; of her penury and want—"and now, thank God," she said, "you will see the end."

Lizzie wept at the story, and when it was ended, she said lovingly,

"Leah, dear, let me send for your father? I know he would come."

"Alas! the chillness of death is upon me, and the thought of dying without his forgiveness is terrible! Would not his blessing dispel this awful gloom, dear Lizzie? Ah! a soul in the presence of its God is a helpless, pitiable thing!"

"Our Father is a God of love and mercy, Leah; trust His goodness."

"I prayed last night from my prayer-book, but still all was dark. Won't you pray, dear Lizzie? Pray for my father to come, with forgiveness, and that his blessing may banish this gloom-this mysterious gloom. Pray for me, Lizzie, pray for me now; and then you may send for him. But stop! My child! Lizzie, my child! What will become of her? Will you not take her? Will you not keep her? Will you not love her for my sake? I could not give her to another. Tell me, dear. It's growing-oh! so chilly!"

Eliza softly murmured, "Before Heaven, Leah, I solemnly promise to deal with your child as I would have others deal with mine. Give yourself no further sorrow for her, Leah."

"Thank God! and now, you may pray for me; pray that the gloom may be dispelled, and this death-chamber brightened by my father's forgiveness. Here, clasp my hands. Kneel close to me. I would catch every word. A shadow seems to hang upon everything! Now."

Thrilled with emotion, Eliza sank upon her knees, and with one arm embracing the sobbing child, the other hand clasping the dying woman's, she prayed:

"Eternal God, our Heavenly Father, in weakness, in darkness, and yet in confidence, we appeal unto Thee for succor. In life, as in death, we are dependent upon Thy mercy and love, and yet, ever unmindful of Thy goodness, we must constantly implore Thy forgiveness.

"Grant now, dear Father-now, in this dark hour of dissolving nature-a clear and sustaining view of Thy goodness and mercy.

"Draw very near, compassionate God, with assurances of Thy full and free pardon. Dispel with Thy brightness the darkness of death that now enshrouds a helpless soul; and take it, in Thy boundless love, into everlasting rest. Manifest Thy forgiveness, O God, for the deeds done in the body, and sanctify this soul for the habitation of Thy Saints. As earth has been dark and sorrowful, may heaven be bright and blessed; and may faith be given now, in this hour of awful extremity-faith to dispel the gloom that now veils Thy goodness, mercy, and power.

"Give light, light, O God, for darkness and terror, and peace and joy for apprehension and mourning. Eternal, ever-blessed, unchangeable God, send now Thy Spirit and manifest Thy forgiveness. O Father, let Thy sacrifice avail! Pity, too, the helpless orphan, compassionate Father, and like a mantle wrap Thy love about it. Guide its footsteps with wisdom, direct its way with love, and may it live to Thy honor and glory. Hear us in our weakness, helplessness, and sinfulness, and to Thy eternal Being be everlasting honor and glory. Amen."

Releasing the little child, and unclasping the dying hand, Eliza rose and said:

"Now, Leah, I'll send for your father."

"Well. Be quick!" and as a seraphic smile overspread her face, she added, "Leave me alone till he comes, Lizzie, but be quick. I would see him now, now; all is light, light, light! Joy, love, peace-at last."

An hour later, Mr. Mordecai-in answer to a message saying that his daughter was dying at the Bellevue Home, and wished to see him-came tottering into the hall-way, his face expressive of the deepest sorrow; his head had grown venerable and gray, his form was bent beneath a weight of grief that might have crushed a heart of stone. Not a word was spoken, as he silently took the hand of Mrs. Marshall, who met him at the threshold, and led the way to Leah's chamber. The expression of his face told the anguish of his heart. Noiselessly entering the room, they found that the little child had fallen asleep on the foot of its mother's bed, exhausted with weeping. The coverlet was drawn carelessly over Leah's face, concealing her features. Softly approaching her, Lizzie tremblingly turned the coverlet back. Alas! she was dead.

On the bosom of the dead, as she was being prepared for burial, was found the miniature of her mother, the birth-day gift of years ago. The jewels were gone. One by one they had been removed from their places, to answer the imperative demands of hunger and want. But the face, the beloved face of the mother, had ever been pressed to the heart of the unhappy daughter. And now, it was not to be removed, even by death itself; for the agonized father, beholding the evidence of Leah's devotion, said, "As she kept it in life, so shall she keep it in death. Place it again on her bosom. Thank God, I shall soon sleep beside her in the quiet burying-ground of my people; and may the eternal God forgive my sin toward her."

THE END.