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.