"It's all over now; school-days are ended, and I am acknowledged a young lady, I suppose," thought Leah half-consciously, as she aroused at length from slumber. Then the thought came that it was the last day of Lizzie Heartwell's sojourn in the Queen City; and Leah sprang from her repose with a new and powerful impulse. "I shall spend these last hours with her," she muttered articulately, as she hastily performed the morning's simple toilet. "Yes, I'll tell her my secret, too, though to no living soul have I breathed it yet," she continued audibly, as she adjusted a pin here and there among the dark braids of her hair. At last, smoothing the jetty bands across the fair, oval forehead, she glanced back again to see that the scar—the hated, dreadful scar—was hidden. Then placing a knot of scarlet ribbon amid the delicate lace-work of her snowy morning dress, she languidly descended the stairs and entered the library, where her father sat awaiting her appearance.
Mr. Mordecai was proud of Leah; proud of her attainments at school, gratified with her grade of deportment, and delighted that she had "finished," and with so much credit. As she entered the library, he arose, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted first a good-morning and then a congratulatory kiss upon her face.
"I am proud of my daughter," he said; "proud that no one at Madam Truxton's excelled my own Leah. I am proud of your example to your sisters, and trust they will strive to emulate it."
"Thank you, father. I hope I shall never cause you shame," she replied with tenderness.
During this brief dialogue, the evil-eyed mother had sat an attentive listener, her jealous nature stirred to its depths. Then she said:
"If you are so proud of Leah now, what will you feel when Sarah is through school?"
"Additional happiness, I trust; and following her sister's example, she cannot disappoint papa," said Mr. Mordecai, stroking Sarah upon the head softly, as he arose and led the way to the breakfast table.
The morning repast was finished with more than becoming haste, for Mr. Mordecai had waited to welcome his daughter, and would consequently be late at his bank.
"It's real late," said Leah, as she followed her father from the house. "I hear the Citadel clock striking ten. I must spend the morning with Lizzie." Then donning the light Leghorn hat that gave her a gypsy-like appearance, she started forth toward Rev. Dr. Heartwell's unpretentious house. As she passed block and square that marked the distance, her heart was heavy and her thoughts were sorrowful. She realized that it was perhaps her final leave—taking of her most cherished friend. Her path led past the walls of the dark, gray citadel, and as she cast a glance up toward its turreted heights, and its prison-like windows, she sighed a deep-drawn, heart-felt sigh. And why?
The gentle sea-breeze had arisen, and though it sported with the helpless ribbon upon her bosom, and kissed again and again the crimson cheeks, it could not cool the fires of anxiety and sorrow that burned within her heart. She felt that she was losing much in losing Lizzie Heartwell. And the fear was not an idle one.