the war-cloud rolled away. the dark, wild, sanguinary cloud, that had swept with such devastating fury over a land where war was deemed impossible, was passed. the roar of cannon ceased, the rattle of musketry was no more heard in the land. again the nation was at peace, undismembered, triumphant. once more its proud flag floated, unmolested and gay, from every rampart and flag-staff in the wide domain. on the one hand, there were bonfires and pealing bells, huzzahs, greetings, congratulations, rejoicings over the termination of the conflict, while on the other, sorrow and mourning, lamentation and despair, filled the homes of a people, whose hearts were bleeding, and whose hopes were crushed. all, all was gone. only the cypress wreath was left, to remind of loved ones slain, and beggary, want, and famine to point with ghastly fingers to the past. the sweet sunshine fell lovingly again upon that worn section of the land, to find its fertile fields deserted, its homes destroyed, and its people cast down. here and there, everywhere, far and wide, in many states, where the tread of the monster war was heaviest, only the silent chimneys and the neglected gardens gave token that the spot was once the homestead of a happy, happy family. deem this no sensational record to elicit sympathy from stranger hearts. only the sympathy of heaven avails in man's extremity; and that sympathy, thank god, his war-worn people have had.

this same memorable time that brought peace to the nation with such unexpected suddenness, found hundreds, even thousands of people, still refugees. then many, regathering their shattered hopes and courage, sought their former homes. many, alas! dispirited by loss of friends and fortune, dared not turn their sorrowful eyes backward, but chose rather to remain quietly where the final crash had found them. refugee! o reader, kind or careless reader, think not lightly or scornfully of the word.

so far as possible, the scattered denizens of the queen city had returned to their scarred homes. many who at the time of their departure counted their thousands, and even millions, came back in comparative beggary. yet back, back, back, they came, who could, to this mutilated mecca of their hearts.

mr. mordecai again occupied his palatial home, which had survived the wreck of bombardment, and, unlike hundreds of his unfortunate fellow-citizens, he was unimpoverished. aside from the good fortune that had attended his financial arrangements in this country during the period of conflict, he had also a banking connection in england, that would alone have made him a rich man.

so back to his home mr. mordecai came, not in poverty and want, not in sackcloth and mourning for the slain, and yet not in joy or contentment. from the fearful day when he lost his beautiful daughter, his heart had been darkened and his hopes destroyed, and through the eventful years that had slipped on since he last beheld her face, a feeling of unrelenting bitterness had possessed his soul. always angry with leah and with the man who had led her into disobedience, he now felt still more bitter toward him, as he deemed him a felon, a murderer, unpunished and unforgiven. the change of place and scene, the rushing and hurrying of events during the years of refugee life, had tended somewhat to crowd from his mind the thoughts of his lost daughter; but now that he was back again, back in the old home, where every niche and corner, flower and shrub, were associated with her memory, the father was miserable indeed-miserable because he well knew that somewhere upon the broad earth, leah, if living at all, was living in loneliness and dreariness, in poverty and sorrow.