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.