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--"