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.