leah mordecai sat alone in her bed chamber. a bright fire glowed within the grate, and the gas-light overhead added its mellow brightness to the apartment. arrayed in a comfortable crimson silk wrapper, the girl sat before the fire, with her slippered foot upon the fender, and gazed steadily and thoughtfully into the fantastic coals. without, the world was cold and bright, for a pale, tremulous moon filled the world with its beauty. the wind came in across the sea, and mingling with the murmur of the waters, produced a weird and ghost-like sound, as it swept through half-deserted streets, penetrating rudely the abodes of poverty, and whistling around the mansions of the rich. this sound leah heard faintly, as it sought ingress at her windows, and down the half-closed chimney. she shuddered; yet it was not an unusual or a frightful sound, and not half so saddening as the sound that floated up the stairs: the sound of low, sweet singing-mark abrams singing with flute-like voice to her sister sarah, who was soon, very soon, expected to become his wife. leah had heard that voice before, had listened to its melody, attuned to other words, and as she recalled the vanished time, she trembled, shuddered, with an indefinable terror.

as the sound of the music ceased, she arose and walked to the window. with both hands pressed closely beside her face, so as to exclude every gleam of light from within, she looked steadily out of the window. all without was bright, and cold, and beautiful. white fleecy clouds drifted about the heavens, like so many phantom barks upon the deep blue sea.

"it's cold without and cold within," she muttered, and then, as if startled by some sudden resolve, she turned from the window back to a small escritoire, saying:

"yes, i'll delay no longer. i must answer lizzie's letter and tell her all. my duties for the coming week will be pressing, allowing me no opportunity for writing, equal to that of the present."

then she wrote: "queen city, january 20, 185-.

"my own cherished friend: to-night from my casement i looked out upon the cold, bright world, wrapped in moonlight, and as i gazed at the far-off misty horizon, the distance called to mind my far-off friend at melrose--recalled to mind, too, the fact that your last welcome letter has for an unwonted length of time remained unanswered. your letter that came on the new year, came as the flowers of spring, always fresh and beautiful. it has been neglected from the inevitable press of circumstances by which i have been surrounded, which neglect, i feel assured, you will appreciate and forgive, when i have detailed the following facts.

"my sister sarah is to be married in a week. this approaching event has been the cause of my restricted time, pressing out of sight, and even out of memory, all letter-writing.

"yes, dear lizzie, the long-expected nuptials are actually about to be celebrated, and all our household, except myself, are in a fever of excitement and delight.

"my step-mother is ecstatic over the success of her scheming, and even condescends to be kind to me,-to me, lizzie, whom she has so long and so faithfully despised.

"my father, too, seems happy over this alliance, knowing mark's excellent character and business qualifications, and appreciating the connection with the rabbi's family. mark himself appears happy in the hope of securing sarah for his wife. but as to sarah, i can scarcely divine her feelings; she is too young and light-hearted fully to comprehend the step before her. she seems delighted with the occasion that bestows upon her so many handsome presents; and beyond this i think she scarcely casts a thought. the marriage will be solemnized at the synagogue, and the reception held here at home. mark has given sarah some elegant gifts, gifts that should be mine. is it wrong to write those words--words that contain so much meaning? it may be; but as you know all, dear lizzie, i shall not erase them. and this reminds me of something i must tell you, of another piece of double-dealing and treachery imposed upon me by rebecca. some weeks ago, my father's cousin, baron von rosenberg, hearing of sarah's approaching marriage-i have told you of this cousin before-sent over a box of valuable presents for the children, all of us, including sarah, of course. among the articles sent, were an elegant crimson velvet mantle, and a diamond brooch. 'these,' wrote the baron, 'are for your eldest daughter-leah i believe.'

"my father gave the letter to his wife, supposing, of course, that i would be allowed a perusal of it. but instead she secreted the letter, and in disposing of the gifts, said to me 'here, leah, is a handsome necklace, sent to you by the baron, and this elegant velvet mantle and diamond brooch are for your sister sarah-wedding presents. how kind of the baron to remember her so substantially!' 'yes,' said i, 'it was kind, and thoughtful too. i am glad that he has been so generous. i certainly thank him for his remembrance of me.' i had no dream but that she was telling me the truth, nor should i have suspected the deception, but, unfortunately, i overheard my father one day say, 'rebecca, how did leah like the mantle and brooch the baron sent her?'

"'oh, she thought them beautiful, as they are,' was the quick reply; 'but like a generous girl-there are few such-she begged her sister to keep them, as suitable bridal gifts from her, as well as tokens of her love.'

"'she's a dear unselfish creature,' replied my father, with the credulity of a child; 'i never saw another young person just like her. she's so deep and hidden in her nature, one cannot easily read her thoughts. i wish sometimes she was more open and confiding; but she is a darling, for all her reticence.'

"'yes, and loves sarah to idolatry,' was the smooth, well-put rejoinder.

"this much i heard, dear lizzie, of the conversation, and then, with a horrified, sickening sensation, i flew away-flew away to solitude, and communion with myself.

"i dared not undeceive my father; and as to the gifts my heart cried out, 'go, vain baubles, go? what are diamonds and velvet to a desolate soul? go, as mark abrams, and many other things rightfully mine, have gone from me--through treachery and fraud.'

"at this dreadful discovery, dear lizzie, i longed for your true heart, so warm with sympathy, but it was far, far away, and no medium of communication between us but the soulless, tearless pen. that was inadequate then; now, the feeling has passed.

"but i crave your pardon for consuming so much time and space upon myself and my woes. forgive me.

"when the wedding is over i'll write you a full and detailed account of it all.

"did i tell you in my last of bertha levy? she is cultivating her voice in berlin, and promises to become a marvellous singer, they say. would you ever have thought she could be sober long enough to sing even a short ballad? what a girl bertha was!-real good and kind though, despite her witchery.

"oh, me! do you ever wish, lizzie, you were a school-girl again at madam truxton's? i do. i often recall the song: "'backward, turn backward, o time, in your flight,' and am always sorrowful that my cry is unheeded by this swift-footed monarch.

"i see madam truxton occasionally. she is always engrossed, as you know, and the pressing duties to the new pupils exclude from her mind all remembrance of the old ones. yet i love her, and always shall.

"i think i hear you asking, 'what of emile?' and in a few brief words i can reply. i still see him occasionally, and he still professes his unchanging love for me. forgive me, lizzie; pardon what may seem in me a weakness, but i must confess it, i believe i love emile. firmly as i once promised you to shut my heart against his overtures of love, i have slowly but surely yielded my resolution, and now i can but frankly confess it. i do not think i shall ever marry him. i have told him so again and again, and i believe i shall never surrender this resolve. i have never told my father of emile's devotion to me. i have not deemed it necessary, as i do not intend to marry him; and, then, i have been afraid to tell him. i only meet emile by chance, and but rarely. i know you would advise me not to see him at all, and maybe i will not in the future. nous verrons.

"since i wrote to you last, kitty legare has died. she has been fading, as you know, for a long time with consumption. dear girl, now she is at rest; and, i think, to be envied.

"but dear friend, i am drawing my letter to a tedious length. the stillness of the hour admonishes me to seek repose. so, hastily and with everlasting love, i bid you good night. "your own "leah."