home. Her mind was filled with sad and gloomy thoughts--thoughts of
the life and character of her beloved friend. The misty twilight
seemed deepened by the tears that bedimmed her vision, as she
thought again and again of the life blighted by sorrow, and the
character warped by treachery and deceit.

"Alas!" thought she, "had the forming hand of love but moulded that
young life, how perfect would have been its symmetry! What a
fountain of joy might now be welling in that heart's desert waste,
where scarcely a rill of affection is flowing."

Filled with these and like thoughts, Lizzie reached the doorway of
her uncle's house, and was soon admitted beneath its hospitable
roof.

Leah Mordecai, when separated from Lizzie, plodded straight forward
toward her father's elegant home. The street lamps shone brightly,
but the departing daylight, that was spreading its gloom over the
world, was not half so dark and desolate as her poor heart. Yet Leah
seldom wept--her tears did not start, like watchful sentinels, at
every approach of pain or joy. Only when the shrivelled fountain of
her heart was deeply stirred, did this fair creature weep. Calm,
placid, and beautiful in the lamp-light, the features of her young
face betrayed no emotion, as she passed one and another, on beyond
the din of the garrulous multitude.

At last she stood before her father's gate, and rang the bell.

"Is that you, Miss Leah?" said Mingo the porter, as he opened the
door of the lodge.