CHAPTER XVIII.





THE terrible tragedy that had filled so many hearts with
consternation, the untimely and mysterious death of Mark Abrams, had
long since been numbered with the events of the past. In the Hebrew
burial ground, in a suburb of the Queen City, his mortal remains
were at rest. Months ago, the grass had sprung, and the flowers of
affection blossomed above his pulseless bosom. Upon the seventh day
of every week since that dreadful January, the unhappy father and
mother had turned their faces devoutly toward the city of their
fathers, and offered their fervent prayers. Yet no abatement of
sorrow had time brought to the mother's wounded, bleeding heart.
Wearily, and often despairingly, she longed for that untried,
unknown life beyond, where she dimly hoped for a reunion with her
lost son.

Sarah Mordecai, young, thoughtless, volatile, in the death of her
lover was disappointed, but not heartbroken. Recovering from the
shock of her sorrow with the buoyancy and elasticity of youth, her
repinings scarcely reached beyond the period that brought blossoms