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

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

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

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

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

"That was sad! 'Love's sacrifice' indeed, at a terrible cost!"

replied the young man thoughtfully. "I trust I'll be more successful some day than the Indian lover was."

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

hers was a sad fate."

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

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

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

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

George Marshall looked pale and troubled, as he bade adieu to Mrs.

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

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

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

"Miss Heartwell, I love you, and you know it. If it were not a sin against the great God, I would say I adore you. May I not hope that those crystal tears betray the existence of a kindred love for me?

Nothing but love, unalloyed and pure, love for yourself, ever brought me to Melrose. May I go away with the assurance that my love is returned, and bearing in my heart the hope to come again some day, and claim you as my wife? May I?"

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

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

Wearily, and often despairingly, she longed for that untried, unknown life beyond, where she dimly hoped for a reunion with her lost son.

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

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

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

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

"August 30.-This has been a memorable month to me. Last night, in the starlight, as I walked home with Leah from the Battery, she promised to marry me; yes, actually to marry me! Said she was unhappy at home-I wonder why-and would marry me in self-defence, if from no other cause. A tear stood in her dark eyes as she said, with stern, hoarse voice, 'If you love me, Emile, truly love me, and will be faithful to me, I will forsake all others and marry you.' Then she made me swear it--swear it there, in the face of the blue heavens and the glittering stars. I tremble when I think of my parents'

displeasure, but then I love the girl, and shall fulfil my vow, even unto death. In a month I shall be twenty-five years old, and before another birth-day rolls around, after this one, I shall be a married man-married to the girl I love, Leah Mordecai, the Jewess. I wonder what the world will say. But I don't care; love knows no barriers.

When my plans are a little more defined, I shall mention the matter seriously to my father. Mother will not hear to it, I know. And then; if he is willing, all well; if he is not willing, all well still. I shall marry her."

CHAPTER XIX.

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

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

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

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

"Well, my husband, what arrangement can you make for Leah's going?

Of course you cannot accompany her."

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

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

"So I will, kind little heart, good little woman that you are,"

replied Mr. Mordecai affectionately, as he stroked Rebecca on the arm.

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