Mordecai rose early from his couch of restless slumber. Restlessly
he walked the library floor backward and forward, awaiting the
appearance of his daughter Leah. At length he said to his wife, as
she summoned him to the morning meal, "It's very late. I wonder why
Leah does not come down. I'll just step to her room, and see if she
is ready; fatigue and anxiety may have caused her to sleep later
than usual this morning. I'll join you in the breakfast-room in a
moment."

After a moment had elapsed, Mr. Mordecai stood gently tapping at his
daughter's chamber door. There was no response. He gently opened it.
The room was vacant. Not a sound or a voice greeted his entrance.
Stiff and well-arranged, the elegant furniture stood mutely against
the cold, cheerless walls. The ominous tidiness of the deserted
bed-chamber bespoke a fearful story. The father stood for a moment
in amazement, silently surveying the apartment, his heart half
trembling with a vague fear; then he said, in a hoarse, frightened
tone, "Leah, my daughter, where are you?" There came no reply, but
the faint echo of his whispered words, "Where are you?"

Stepping forward softly into the room, he paused again, and then
with slow, uncertain step approached the casement that looked out
upon the front garden. There was nothing without but the sunshine
and the breeze, and the passing crowd already beginning to throng
the streets. Again he turned, with anxious heart, away from the
crowd without, to the deserted room within. "Where's my daughter?
Leah, dear Leah, where are you?" A folded scrap of paper upon the
escritoire caught his eye, and springing forward he seized it, half
hopefully, half fearfully, and tremblingly unfolded it. These are
the words it contained: