einrichtung langes wohnzimmer

chapter xxivforeshadowings two days after this, alfred st. clare andaugustine parted; and eva, who had been stimulated, by the society of her youngcousin, to exertions beyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. st. clare was at last willing to call inmedical advice,--a thing from which he had always shrunk, because it was the admissionof an unwelcome truth. but, for a day or two, eva was so unwell asto be confined to the house; and the doctor was called. marie st. clare had taken no notice of thechild's gradually decaying health and

strength, because she was completelyabsorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease to which she believed sheherself was a victim. it was the first principle of marie'sbelief that nobody ever was or could be so great a sufferer as herself; and,therefore, she always repelled quite indignantly any suggestion that any onearound her could be sick. she was always sure, in such a case, thatit was nothing but laziness, or want of energy; and that, if they had had thesuffering she had, they would soon know the difference. miss ophelia had several times tried toawaken her maternal fears about eva; but to

no avail."i don't see as anything ails the child," she would say; "she runs about, and plays." "but she has a cough.""cough! you don't need to tell me about a cough.i've always been subject to a cough, all my days. when i was of eva's age, they thought i wasin a consumption. night after night, mammy used to sit upwith me. o! eva's cough is not anything." "but she gets weak, and is short-breathed.""law!

i've had that, years and years; it's only anervous affection." "but she sweats so, nights!" "well, i have, these ten years.very often, night after night, my clothes will be wringing wet. there won't be a dry thread in my night-clothes and the sheets will be so that mammy has to hang them up to dry!eva doesn't sweat anything like that!" miss ophelia shut her mouth for a season. but, now that eva was fairly and visiblyprostrated, and a doctor called, marie, all on a sudden, took a new turn.

"she knew it," she said; "she always feltit, that she was destined to be the most miserable of mothers. here she was, with her wretched health, andher only darling child going down to the grave before her eyes;"--and marie routedup mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded, with more energy than ever, all day, on thestrength of this new misery. "my dear marie, don't talk so!" said st.clare. "you ought not to give up the case so, atonce." "you have not a mother's feelings, st.clare! you never could understand me!--you don'tnow."

"but don't talk so, as if it were a gonecase!" "i can't take it as indifferently as youcan, st. clare. if you don't feel when your only child isin this alarming state, i do. it's a blow too much for me, with all i wasbearing before." "it's true," said st. clare, "that eva isvery delicate, that i always knew; and that she has grown so rapidly as to exhaust herstrength; and that her situation is critical. but just now she is only prostrated by theheat of the weather, and by the excitement of her cousin's visit, and the exertionsshe made.

the physician says there is room for hope." "well, of course, if you can look on thebright side, pray do; it's a mercy if people haven't sensitive feelings, in thisworld. i am sure i wish i didn't feel as i do; itonly makes me completely wretched! i wish i could be as easy as the rest ofyou!" and the "rest of them" had good reason tobreathe the same prayer, for marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apologyfor all sorts of inflictions on every one about her. every word that was spoken by anybody,everything that was done or was not done

everywhere, was only a new proof that shewas surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, who were unmindful of her peculiarsorrows. poor eva heard some of these speeches; andnearly cried her little eyes out, in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that sheshould make her so much distress. in a week or two, there was a greatimprovement of symptoms,--one of those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorabledisease so often beguiles the anxious heart, even on the verge of the grave. eva's step was again in the garden,--in thebalconies; she played and laughed again,-- and her father, in a transport, declaredthat they should soon have her as hearty as

anybody. miss ophelia and the physician alone feltno encouragement from this illusive truce. there was one other heart, too, that feltthe same certainty, and that was the little heart of eva. what is it that sometimes speaks in thesoul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short? is it the secret instinct of decayingnature, or the soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? be it what it may, it rested in the heartof eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty

that heaven was near; calm as the light ofsunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who lovedher so dearly. for the child, though nursed so tenderly,and though life was unfolding before her with every brightness that love and wealthcould give, had no regret for herself in dying. in that book which she and her simple oldfriend had read so much together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the imageof one who loved the little child; and, as she gazed and mused, he had ceased to be an

image and a picture of the distant past,and come to be a living, all-surrounding reality. his love enfolded her childish heart withmore than mortal tenderness; and it was to him, she said, she was going, and to hishome. but her heart yearned with sad tendernessfor all that she was to leave behind. her father most,--for eva, though she neverdistinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception that she was more in his heartthan any other. she loved her mother because she was soloving a creature, and all the selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened andperplexed her; for she had a child's

implicit trust that her mother could not dowrong. there was something about her that evanever could make out; and she always smoothed it over with thinking that, afterall, it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly indeed. she felt, too, for those fond, faithfulservants, to whom she was as daylight and sunshine. children do not usually generalize; but evawas an uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of the evilsof the system under which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths ofher thoughtful, pondering heart.

she had vague longings to do something forthem,--to bless and save not only them, but all in their condition,--longings thatcontrasted sadly with the feebleness of her little frame. "uncle tom," she said, one day, when shewas reading to her friend, "i can understand why jesus wanted to die for us.""why, miss eva?" "because i've felt so, too." "what is it miss eva?--i don't understand." "i can't tell you; but, when i saw thosepoor creatures on the boat, you know, when you came up and i,--some had lost theirmothers, and some their husbands, and some

mothers cried for their little children-- and when i heard about poor prue,--oh,wasn't that dreadful!--and a great many other times, i've felt that i would be gladto die, if my dying could stop all this misery. i would die for them, tom, if i could,"said the child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his. tom looked at the child with awe; and whenshe, hearing her father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, as helooked after her. "it's jest no use tryin' to keep miss evahere," he said to mammy, whom he met a

moment after."she's got the lord's mark in her forehead." "ah, yes, yes," said mammy, raising herhands; "i've allers said so. she wasn't never like a child that's tolive--there was allers something deep in her eyes. i've told missis so, many the time; it's acomin' true,--we all sees it,--dear, little, blessed lamb!"eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. it was late in the afternoon, and the raysof the sun formed a kind of glory behind

her, as she came forward in her whitedress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally bright withthe slow fever that burned in her veins. st. clare had called her to show astatuette that he had been buying for her; but her appearance, as she came on,impressed him suddenly and painfully. there is a kind of beauty so intense, yetso fragile, that we cannot bear to look at it. her father folded her suddenly in his arms,and almost forgot what he was going to tell her."eva, dear, you are better now-a-days,--are you not?"

"papa," said eva, with sudden firmness"i've had things i wanted to say to you, a great while.i want to say them now, before i get weaker." st. clare trembled as eva seated herself inhis lap. she laid her head on his bosom, and said,"it's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. the time is coming that i am going to leaveyou. i am going, and never to come back!" andeva sobbed. "o, now, my dear little eva!" said st.clare, trembling as he spoke, but speaking

cheerfully, "you've got nervous and low-spirited; you mustn't indulge such gloomy thoughts. see here, i've bought a statuette for you!""no, papa," said eva, putting it gently away, "don't deceive yourself!--i am notany better, i know it perfectly well,--and i am going, before long. i am not nervous,--i am not low-spirited.if it were not for you, papa, and my friends, i should be perfectly happy.i want to go,--i long to go!" "why, dear child, what has made your poorlittle heart so sad? you have had everything, to make you happy,that could be given you."

"i had rather be in heaven; though, onlyfor my friends' sake, i would be willing to live. there are a great many things here thatmake me sad, that seem dreadful to me; i had rather be there; but i don't want toleave you,--it almost breaks my heart!" "what makes you sad, and seems dreadful,eva?" "o, things that are done, and done all thetime. i feel sad for our poor people; they loveme dearly, and they are all good and kind to me.i wish, papa, they were all free." "why, eva, child, don't you think they arewell enough off now?"

"o, but, papa, if anything should happen toyou, what would become of them? there are very few men like you, papa. uncle alfred isn't like you, and mammaisn't; and then, think of poor old prue's owners!what horrid things people do, and can do!" and eva shuddered. "my dear child, you are too sensitive.i'm sorry i ever let you hear such stories.""o, that's what troubles me, papa. you want me to live so happy, and never tohave any pain,--never suffer anything,--not even hear a sad story, when other poorcreatures have nothing but pain and sorrow,

an their lives;--it seems selfish. i ought to know such things, i ought tofeel about them! such things always sunk into my heart; theywent down deep; i've thought and thought about them. papa, isn't there any way to have allslaves made free?" "that's a difficult question, dearest. there's no doubt that this way is a verybad one; a great many people think so; i do myself i heartily wish that there were nota slave in the land; but, then, i don't know what is to be done about it!"

"papa, you are such a good man, and sonoble, and kind, and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleasant,couldn't you go all round and try to persuade people to do right about this? when i am dead, papa, then you will thinkof me, and do it for my sake. i would do it, if i could.""when you are dead, eva," said st. clare, passionately. "o, child, don't talk to me so!you are all i have on earth." "poor old prue's child was all that shehad,--and yet she had to hear it crying, and she couldn't help it!

papa, these poor creatures love theirchildren as much as you do me. o! do something for them!there's poor mammy loves her children; i've seen her cry when she talked about them. and tom loves his children; and it'sdreadful, papa, that such things are happening, all the time!" "there, there, darling," said st. clare,soothingly; "only don't distress yourself, don't talk of dying, and i will do anythingyou wish." "and promise me, dear father, that tomshall have his freedom as soon as"--she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone--"iam gone!"

"yes, dear, i will do anything in theworld,--anything you could ask me to." "dear papa," said the child, laying herburning cheek against his, "how i wish we could go together!" "where, dearest?" said st. clare."to our saviour's home; it's so sweet and peaceful there--it is all so loving there!"the child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where she had often been. "don't you want to go, papa?" she said.st. clare drew her closer to him, but was silent. "you will come to me," said the child,speaking in a voice of calm certainty which

she often used unconsciously."i shall come after you. i shall not forget you." the shadows of the solemn evening closedround them deeper and deeper, as st. clare sat silently holding the little frail formto his bosom. he saw no more the deep eyes, but the voicecame over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment vision, his whole pastlife rose in a moment before his eyes: his mother's prayers and hymns; his own early yearnings and aspirings for good; and,between them and this hour, years of worldliness and scepticism, and what mancalls respectable living.

we can think much, very much, in a moment. st. clare saw and felt many things, butspoke nothing; and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her bed-room; and, whenshe was prepared for rest; he sent away the attendants, and rocked her in his arms, andsung to her till she was asleep. > chapter xxvthe little evangelist it was sunday afternoon.st. clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with acigar. marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite thewindow opening on the verandah, closely

secluded, under an awning of transparentgauze, from the outrages of the mosquitos, and languidly holding in her hand anelegantly bound prayer-book. she was holding it because it was sunday,and she imagined she had been reading it,-- though, in fact, she had been only taking asuccession of short naps, with it open in her hand. miss ophelia, who, after some rummaging,had hunted up a small methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, withtom as driver, to attend it; and eva had accompanied them. "i say, augustine," said marie after dozinga while, "i must send to the city after my

old doctor posey; i'm sure i've got thecomplaint of the heart." "well; why need you send for him? this doctor that attends eva seemsskilful." "i would not trust him in a critical case,"said marie; "and i think i may say mine is becoming so! i've been thinking of it, these two orthree nights past; i have such distressing pains, and such strange feelings.""o, marie, you are blue; i don't believe it's heart complaint." "i dare say you don't," said marie; "i wasprepared to expect that.

you can be alarmed enough, if eva coughs,or has the least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me." "if it's particularly agreeable to you tohave heart disease, why, i'll try and maintain you have it," said st. clare; "ididn't know it was." "well, i only hope you won't be sorry forthis, when it's too late!" said marie; "but, believe it or not, my distress abouteva, and the exertions i have made with that dear child, have developed what i havelong suspected." what the exertions were which mariereferred to, it would have been difficult to state.

st. clare quietly made this commentary tohimself, and went on smoking, like a hard- hearted wretch of a man as he was, till acarriage drove up before the verandah, and eva and miss ophelia alighted. miss ophelia marched straight to her ownchamber, to put away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spokea word on any subject; while eva came, at st: clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an account of the servicesthey had heard. they soon heard loud exclamations from missophelia's room, which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened on to theverandah and violent reproof addressed to

somebody. "what new witchcraft has tops beenbrewing?" asked st. clare. "that commotion is of her raising, i'll bebound!" and, in a moment after, miss ophelia, inhigh indignation, came dragging the culprit along."come out here, now!" she said. "i will tell your master!" "what's the case now?" asked augustine."the case is, that i cannot be plagued with this child, any longer!it's past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot endure it!

here, i locked her up, and gave her a hymnto study; and what does she do, but spy out where i put my key, and has gone to mybureau, and got a bonnet-trimming, and cut it all to pieces to make dolls' jackets! i never saw anything like it, in my life!""i told you, cousin," said marie, "that you'd find out that these creatures can'tbe brought up without severity. if i had my way, now," she said, lookingreproachfully at st. clare, "i'd send that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped;i'd have her whipped till she couldn't stand!" "i don't doubt it," said st. clare."tell me of the lovely rule of woman!

i never saw above a dozen women thatwouldn't half kill a horse, or a servant, either, if they had their own way withthem!--let alone a man." "there is no use in this shilly-shally wayof yours, st. clare!" said marie. "cousin is a woman of sense, and she seesit now, as plain as i do." miss ophelia had just the capability ofindignation that belongs to the thorough- paced housekeeper, and this had been prettyactively roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many of my lady readers must own that they shouldhave felt just so in her circumstances; but marie's words went beyond her, and she feltless heat.

"i wouldn't have the child treated so, forthe world," she said; "but, i am sure, augustine, i don't know what to do. i've taught and taught; i've talked tilli'm tired; i've whipped her; i've punished her in every way i can think of, and she'sjust what she was at first." "come here, tops, you monkey!" said st.clare, calling the child up to him. topsy came up; her round, hard eyesglittering and blinking with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odddrollery. "what makes you behave so?" said st. clare,who could not help being amused with the child's expression."spects it's my wicked heart," said topsy,

demurely; "miss feely says so." "don't you see how much miss ophelia hasdone for you? she says she has done everything she canthink of." "lor, yes, mas'r! old missis used to sayso, too. she whipped me a heap harder, and used topull my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it didn't do me no good! i spects, if they 's to pull every spire o'har out o' my head, it wouldn't do no good, neither,--i 's so wicked!laws! i 's nothin but a nigger, no ways!"

"well, i shall have to give her up," saidmiss ophelia; "i can't have that trouble any longer.""well, i'd just like to ask one question," said st. clare. "what is it?" "why, if your gospel is not strong enoughto save one heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what'sthe use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands ofjust such? i suppose this child is about a fair sampleof what thousands of your heathen are." miss ophelia did not make an immediateanswer; and eva, who had stood a silent

spectator of the scene thus far, made asilent sign to topsy to follow her. there was a little glass-room at the cornerof the verandah, which st. clare used as a sort of reading-room; and eva and topsydisappeared into this place. "what's eva going about, now?" said st.clare; "i mean to see." and, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up acurtain that covered the glass-door, and looked in. in a moment, laying his finger on his lips,he made a silent gesture to miss ophelia to come and look.there sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them.

topsy, with her usual air of carelessdrollery and unconcern; but, opposite to her, eva, her whole face fervent withfeeling, and tears in her large eyes. "what does make you so bad, topsy? why won't you try and be good?don't you love anybody, topsy?" "donno nothing 'bout love; i loves candyand sich, that's all," said topsy. "but you love your father and mother?" "never had none, ye know.i telled ye that, miss eva." "o, i know," said eva, sadly; "but hadn'tyou any brother, or sister, or aunt, or--" "no, none on 'em,--never had nothing nornobody."

"but, topsy, if you'd only try to be good,you might--" "couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger, ifi was ever so good," said topsy. "if i could be skinned, and come white, i'dtry then." "but people can love you, if you are black,topsy. miss ophelia would love you, if you weregood." topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that washer common mode of expressing incredulity. "don't you think so?" said eva. "no; she can't bar me, 'cause i'm anigger!--she'd 's soon have a toad touch her!there can't nobody love niggers, and

niggers can't do nothin'! i don't care," said topsy, beginning towhistle. "o, topsy, poor child, i love you!" saideva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand ontopsy's shoulder; "i love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother, or friends;--because you've been a poor,abused child! i love you, and i want you to be good. i am very unwell, topsy, and i think ishan't live a great while; and it really grieves me, to have you be so naughty.

i wish you would try to be good, for mysake;--it's only a little while i shall be with you." the round, keen eyes of the black childwere overcast with tears;--large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, andfell on the little white hand. yes, in that moment, a ray of real belief,a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul! she laid her head down between her knees,and wept and sobbed,--while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like thepicture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner.

"poor topsy!" said eva, "don't you knowthat jesus loves all alike? he is just as willing to love you, as me.he loves you just as i do,--only more, because he is better. he will help you to be good; and you can goto heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. only think of it, topsy!--you can be one ofthose spirits bright, uncle tom sings about." "o, dear miss eva, dear miss eva!" said thechild; "i will try, i will try; i never did care nothin' about it before."st. clare, at this instant, dropped the

curtain. "it puts me in mind of mother," he said tomiss ophelia. "it is true what she told me; if we want togive sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as christ did,--call them to us, andput our hands on them." "i've always had a prejudice againstnegroes," said miss ophelia, "and it's a fact, i never could bear to have that childtouch me; but, i don't think she knew it." "trust any child to find that out," saidst. clare; "there's no keeping it from them. but i believe that all the trying in theworld to benefit a child, and all the

substantial favors you can do them, willnever excite one emotion of gratitude, while that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart;--it's a queer kind of a fact,--but so it is." "i don't know how i can help it," said missophelia; "they are disagreeable to me,-- this child in particular,--how can i helpfeeling so?" "eva does, it seems." "well, she's so loving!after all, though, she's no more than christ-like," said miss ophelia; "i wish iwere like her. she might teach me a lesson."

"it wouldn't be the first time a littlechild had been used to instruct an old disciple, if it were so," said st. clare. chapter xxvideath weep not for those whom the veil of thetomb, in life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes.(note: "weep not for those," a poem by thomas moore (1779-1852).) eva's bed-room was a spacious apartment,which, like all the other rooms in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. the room communicated, on one side, withher father and mother's apartment; on the

other, with that appropriated to missophelia. st. clare had gratified his own eye andtaste, in furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping with thecharacter of her for whom it was intended. the windows were hung with curtains ofrose-colored and white muslin, the floor was spread with a matting which had beenordered in paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border of rose- buds and leaves, and a centre-piece withfull-flown roses. the bedstead, chairs, and lounges, were ofbamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful patterns.

over the head of the bed was an alabasterbracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings, holdingout a crown of myrtle-leaves. from this depended, over the bed, lightcurtains of rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying that protection frommosquitos which is an indispensable addition to all sleeping accommodation inthat climate. the graceful bamboo lounges were amplysupplied with cushions of rose-colored damask, while over them, depending from thehands of sculptured figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. a light, fanciful bamboo table stood in themiddle of the room, where a parian vase,

wrought in the shape of a white lily, withits buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. on this table lay eva's books and littletrinkets, with an elegantly wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her fatherhad supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in writing. there was a fireplace in the room, and onthe marble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of jesus receiving littlechildren, and on either side marble vases, for which it was tom's pride and delight tooffer bouquets every morning. two or three exquisite paintings ofchildren, in various attitudes, embellished the wall.

in short, the eye could turn nowherewithout meeting images of childhood, of beauty, and of peace. those little eyes never opened, in themorning light, without falling on something which suggested to the heart soothing andbeautiful thoughts. the deceitful strength which had buoyed evaup for a little while was fast passing away; seldom and more seldom her lightfootstep was heard in the verandah, and oftener and oftener she was found reclined on a little lounge by the open window, herlarge, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling waters of the lake.

it was towards the middle of the afternoon,as she was so reclining,--her bible half open, her little transparent fingers lyinglistlessly between the leaves,--suddenly she heard her mother's voice, in sharptones, in the verandah. "what now, you baggage!--what new piece ofmischief! you've been picking the flowers, hey?" andeva heard the sound of a smart slap. "law, missis! they 's for miss eva," sheheard a voice say, which she knew belonged to topsy. "miss eva!a pretty excuse!--you suppose she wants your flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger!get along off with you!"

in a moment, eva was off from her lounge,and in the verandah. "o, don't, mother!i should like the flowers; do give them to me; i want them!" "why, eva, your room is full now.""i can't have too many," said eva. "topsy, do bring them here." topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding downher head, now came up and offered her flowers. she did it with a look of hesitation andbashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightness which was usualwith her.

"it's a beautiful bouquet!" said eva,looking at it. it was rather a singular one,--a brilliantscarlet geranium, and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. it was tied up with an evident eye to thecontrast of color, and the arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied.topsy looked pleased, as eva said,--"topsy, you arrange flowers very prettily. here," she said, "is this vase i haven'tany flowers for. i wish you'd arrange something every dayfor it." "well, that's odd!" said marie.

"what in the world do you want that for?""never mind, mamma; you'd as lief as not topsy should do it,--had you not?""of course, anything you please, dear! topsy, you hear your young mistress;--seethat you mind." topsy made a short courtesy, and lookeddown; and, as she turned away, eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek. "you see, mamma, i knew poor topsy wantedto do something for me," said eva to her mother."o, nonsense! it's only because she likes to do mischief. she knows she mustn't pick flowers,--so shedoes it; that's all there is to it.

but, if you fancy to have her pluck them,so be it." "mamma, i think topsy is different fromwhat she used to be; she's trying to be a good girl." "she'll have to try a good while before shegets to be good," said marie, with a careless laugh."well, you know, mamma, poor topsy! everything has always been against her." "not since she's been here, i'm sure. if she hasn't been talked to, and preachedto, and every earthly thing done that anybody could do;--and she's just so ugly,and always will be; you can't make anything

of the creature!" "but, mamma, it's so different to bebrought up as i've been, with so many friends, so many things to make me good andhappy; and to be brought up as she's been, all the time, till she came here!" "most likely," said marie, yawning,--"dearme, how hot it is!" "mamma, you believe, don't you, that topsycould become an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a christian?" "topsy! what a ridiculous idea!nobody but you would ever think of it. i suppose she could, though.""but, mamma, isn't god her father, as much

as ours? isn't jesus her saviour?""well, that may be. i suppose god made everybody," said marie."where is my smelling-bottle?" "it's such a pity,--oh! such a pity!" saideva, looking out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself."what's a pity?" said marie. "why, that any one, who could be a brightangel, and live with angels, should go all down, down down, and nobody help them!--ohdear!" "well, we can't help it; it's no useworrying, eva! i don't know what's to be done; we ought tobe thankful for our own advantages."

"i hardly can be," said eva, "i'm so sorryto think of poor folks that haven't any." "that's odd enough," said marie;--"i'm suremy religion makes me thankful for my advantages." "mamma," said eva, "i want to have some ofmy hair cut off,--a good deal of it." "what for?" said marie. "mamma, i want to give some away to myfriends, while i am able to give it to them myself.won't you ask aunty to come and cut it for me?" marie raised her voice, and called missophelia, from the other room.

the child half rose from her pillow as shecame in, and, shaking down her long golden- brown curls, said, rather playfully, "comeaunty, shear the sheep!" "what's that?" said st. clare, who justthen entered with some fruit he had been out to get for her. "papa, i just want aunty to cut off some ofmy hair;--there's too much of it, and it makes my head hot.besides, i want to give some of it away." miss ophelia came, with her scissors. "take care,--don't spoil the looks of it!"said her father; "cut underneath, where it won't show.eva's curls are my pride."

"o, papa!" said eva, sadly. "yes, and i want them kept handsome againstthe time i take you up to your uncle's plantation, to see cousin henrique," saidst. clare, in a gay tone. "i shall never go there, papa;--i am goingto a better country. o, do believe me!don't you see, papa, that i get weaker, every day?" "why do you insist that i shall believesuch a cruel thing, eva?" said her father. "only because it is true, papa: and, if youwill believe it now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as i do."

st. clare closed his lips, and stoodgloomily eying the long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from thechild's head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. she raised them up, looked earnestly atthem, twined them around her thin fingers, and looked from time to time, anxiously ather father. "it's just what i've been foreboding!" saidmarie; "it's just what has been preying on my health, from day to day, bringing medownward to the grave, though nobody regards it. i have seen this, long.st. clare, you will see, after a while,

that i was right." "which will afford you great consolation,no doubt!" said st. clare, in a dry, bitter tone.marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her cambric handkerchief. eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly fromone to the other. it was the calm, comprehending gaze of asoul half loosed from its earthly bonds; it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated,the difference between the two. she beckoned with her hand to her father. he came and sat down by her."papa, my strength fades away every day,

and i know i must go. there are some things i want to say anddo,--that i ought to do; and you are so unwilling to have me speak a word on thissubject. but it must come; there's no putting itoff. do be willing i should speak now!" "my child, i am willing!" said st. clare,covering his eyes with one hand, and holding up eva's hand with the other."then, i want to see all our people together. i have some things i must say to them,"said eva.

"well," said st. clare, in a tone of dryendurance. miss ophelia despatched a messenger, andsoon the whole of the servants were convened in the room. eva lay back on her pillows; her hairhanging loosely about her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with theintense whiteness of her complexion and the thin contour of her limbs and features, and her large, soul-like eyes fixed earnestlyon every one. the servants were struck with a suddenemotion. the spiritual face, the long locks of haircut off and lying by her, her father's

averted face, and marie's sobs, struck atonce upon the feelings of a sensitive and impressible race; and, as they came in, they looked one on another, sighed, andshook their heads. there was a deep silence, like that of afuneral. eva raised herself, and looked long andearnestly round at every one. all looked sad and apprehensive.many of the women hid their faces in their aprons. "i sent for you all, my dear friends," saideva, "because i love you. i love you all; and i have something to sayto you, which i want you always to

remember....i am going to leave you. in a few more weeks you will see me nomore--" here the child was interrupted by bursts ofgroans, sobs, and lamentations, which broke from all present, and in which her slendervoice was lost entirely. she waited a moment, and then, speaking ina tone that checked the sobs of all, she said,"if you love me, you must not interrupt me so. listen to what i say.i want to speak to you about your souls....many of you, i am afraid, are verycareless.

you are thinking only about this world. i want you to remember that there is abeautiful world, where jesus is. i am going there, and you can go there.it is for you, as much as me. but, if you want to go there, you must notlive idle, careless, thoughtless lives. you must be christians. you must remember that each one of you canbecome angels, and be angels forever....if you want to be christians, jesus will helpyou. you must pray to him; you must read--" the child checked herself, looked piteouslyat them, and said, sorrowfully,

"o dear! you can't read--poor souls!" andshe hid her face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those shewas addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her. "never mind," she said, raising her faceand smiling brightly through her tears, "i have prayed for you; and i know jesus willhelp you, even if you can't read. try all to do the best you can; pray everyday; ask him to help you, and get the bible read to you whenever you can; and i think ishall see you all in heaven." "amen," was the murmured response from thelips of tom and mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the methodistchurch.

the younger and more thoughtless ones, forthe time completely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their knees."i know," said eva, "you all love me." "yes; oh, yes! indeed we do! lord bless her!" was the involuntary answerof all. "yes, i know you do! there isn't one of you that hasn't alwaysbeen very kind to me; and i want to give you something that, when you look at, youshall always remember me, i'm going to give all of you a curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think that i loved you and amgone to heaven, and that i want to see you

all there." it is impossible to describe the scene, as,with tears and sobs, they gathered round the little creature, and took from herhands what seemed to them a last mark of her love. they fell on their knees; they sobbed, andprayed, and kissed the hem of her garment; and the elder ones poured forth words ofendearment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after the manner of theirsusceptible race. as each one took their gift, miss ophelia,who was apprehensive for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient,signed to each one to pass out of the

apartment. at last, all were gone but tom and mammy."here, uncle tom," said eva, "is a beautiful one for you. o, i am so happy, uncle tom, to think ishall see you in heaven,--for i'm sure i shall; and mammy,--dear, good, kind mammy!"she said, fondly throwing her arms round her old nurse,--"i know you'll be there,too." "o, miss eva, don't see how i can livewithout ye, no how!" said the faithful creature. "'pears like it's just taking everythingoff the place to oncet!" and mammy gave way

to a passion of grief. miss ophelia pushed her and tom gently fromthe apartment, and thought they were all gone; but, as she turned, topsy wasstanding there. "where did you start up from?" she said,suddenly. "i was here," said topsy, wiping the tearsfrom her eyes. "o, miss eva, i've been a bad girl; butwon't you give me one, too?" "yes, poor topsy! to be sure, i will. there--every time you look at that, thinkthat i love you, and wanted you to be a good girl!"

"o, miss eva, i is tryin!" said topsy,earnestly; "but, lor, it's so hard to be good!'pears like i an't used to it, no ways!" "jesus knows it, topsy; he is sorry foryou; he will help you." topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, wassilently passed from the apartment by miss ophelia; but, as she went, she hid theprecious curl in her bosom. all being gone, miss ophelia shut the door. that worthy lady had wiped away many tearsof her own, during the scene; but concern for the consequence of such an excitementto her young charge was uppermost in her mind.

st. clare had been sitting, during thewhole time, with his hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude.when they were all gone, he sat so still. "papa!" said eva, gently, laying her handon his. he gave a sudden start and shiver; but madeno answer. "dear papa!" said eva. "i cannot," said st. clare, rising, "icannot have it so! the almighty hath dealt very bitterly withme!" and st. clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed. "augustine! has not god a right to do whathe will with his own?" said miss ophelia.

"perhaps so; but that doesn't make it anyeasier to bear," said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away. "papa, you break my heart!" said eva,rising and throwing herself into his arms; "you must not feel so!" and the childsobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed them all, and turned her father'sthoughts at once to another channel. "there, eva,--there, dearest!hush! hush! i was wrong; i was wicked. i will feel any way, do any way,--onlydon't distress yourself; don't sob so. i will be resigned; i was wicked to speakas i did."

eva soon lay like a wearied dove in herfather's arms; and he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he couldthink of. marie rose and threw herself out of theapartment into her own, when she fell into violent hysterics."you didn't give me a curl, eva," said her father, smiling sadly. "they are all yours, papa," said she,smiling--"yours and mamma's; and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. i only gave them to our poor people myself,because you know, papa, they might be forgotten when i am gone, and because ihoped it might help them remember....you

are a christian, are you not, papa?" saideva, doubtfully. "why do you ask me?""i don't know. you are so good, i don't see how you canhelp it." "what is being a christian, eva?""loving christ most of all," said eva. "do you, eva?" "certainly i do.""you never saw him," said st. clare. "that makes no difference," said eva. "i believe him, and in a few days i shallsee him;" and the young face grew fervent, radiant with joy.st. clare said no more.

it was a feeling which he had seen beforein his mother; but no chord within vibrated to it. eva, after this, declined rapidly; therewas no more any doubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. her beautiful room was avowedly a sickroom; and miss ophelia day and night performed the duties of a nurse,--and neverdid her friends appreciate her value more than in that capacity. with so well-trained a hand and eye, suchperfect adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neatness andcomfort, and keep out of sight every

disagreeable incident of sickness,--with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear,untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering every prescription anddirection of the doctors,--she was everything to him. they who had shrugged their shoulders ather little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless freedom of southernmanners, acknowledged that now she was the exact person that was wanted. uncle tom was much in eva's room. the child suffered much from nervousrestlessness, and it was a relief to her to

be carried; and it was tom's greatestdelight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah;and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake,--and the child felt freshest inthe morning,--he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their oldseats, sing to her their favorite old hymns. her father often did the same thing; buthis frame was slighter, and when he was weary, eva would say to him,"o, papa, let tom take me.

poor fellow! it pleases him; and you knowit's all he can do now, and he wants to do something!""so do i, eva!" said her father. "well, papa, you can do everything, and areeverything to me. you read to me,--you sit up nights,--andtom has only this one thing, and his singing; and i know, too, he does it easierthan you can. he carries me so strong!" the desire to do something was not confinedto tom. every servant in the establishment showedthe same feeling, and in their way did what they could.

poor mammy's heart yearned towards herdarling; but she found no opportunity, night or day, as marie declared that thestate of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to rest; and, of course, it was against her principles to let anyone else rest. twenty times in a night, mammy would beroused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handkerchief, to seewhat the noise was in eva's room, to let down a curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark; and,in the daytime, when she longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, marieseemed unusually ingenious in keeping her

busy anywhere and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person; so thatstolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all she could obtain. "i feel it my duty to be particularlycareful of myself, now," she would say, "feeble as i am, and with the whole careand nursing of that dear child upon me." "indeed, my dear," said st. clare, "ithought our cousin relieved you of that." "you talk like a man, st. clare,--just asif a mother could be relieved of the care of a child in that state; but, then, it'sall alike,--no one ever knows what i feel! i can't throw things off, as you do."

st. clare smiled.you must excuse him, he couldn't help it,-- for st. clare could smile yet. for so bright and placid was the farewellvoyage of the little spirit,--by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the small barkborne towards the heavenly shores,--that it was impossible to realize that it was deaththat was approaching. the child felt no pain,--only a tranquil,soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing; and she was so beautiful, soloving, so trustful, so happy, that one could not resist the soothing influence of that air of innocence and peace whichseemed to breathe around her.

st. clare found a strange calm coming overhim. it was not hope,--that was impossible; itwas not resignation; it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed sobeautiful that he wished to think of no future. it was like that hush of spirit which wefeel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on thetrees, and the last lingering flowers by the brook; and we joy in it all the more, because we know that soon it will all passaway. the friend who knew most of eva's ownimaginings and foreshadowings was her

faithful bearer, tom.to him she said what she would not disturb her father by saying. to him she imparted those mysteriousintimations which the soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves itsclay forever. tom, at last, would not sleep in his room,but lay all night in the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call. "uncle tom, what alive have you taken tosleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, for?" said miss ophelia. "i thought you was one of the orderly sort,that liked to lie in bed in a christian

way.""i do, miss feely," said tom, mysteriously. "i do, but now--" "well, what now?""we mustn't speak loud; mas'r st. clare won't hear on 't; but miss feely, you knowthere must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom." "what do you mean, tom?""you know it says in scripture, 'at midnight there was a great cry made.behold, the bridegroom cometh.' that's what i'm spectin now, every night,miss feely,--and i couldn't sleep out o' hearin, no ways.""why, uncle tom, what makes you think so?"

"miss eva, she talks to me. the lord, he sends his messenger in thesoul. i must be thar, miss feely; for when thatar blessed child goes into the kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'll allget a look in at the glory, miss feely." "uncle tom, did miss eva say she felt moreunwell than usual tonight?" "no; but she telled me, this morning, shewas coming nearer,--thar's them that tells it to the child, miss feely. it's the angels,--'it's the trumpet soundafore the break o' day,'" said tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.

this dialogue passed between miss opheliaand tom, between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had allbeen made for the night, when, on going to bolt her outer door, she found tom stretched along by it, in the outerverandah. she was not nervous or impressible; but thesolemn, heart-felt manner struck her. eva had been unusually bright and cheerful,that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her littletrinkets and precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have them given; and her manner was moreanimated, and her voice more natural, than

they had known it for weeks. her father had been in, in the evening, andhad said that eva appeared more like her former self than ever she had done sinceher sickness; and when he kissed her for the night, he said to miss ophelia,-- "cousin, we may keep her with us, afterall; she is certainly better;" and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosomthan he had had there for weeks. but at midnight,--strange, mystic hour!--when the veil between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin,--then camethe messenger! there was a sound in that chamber, first ofone who stepped quickly.

it was miss ophelia, who had resolved tosit up all night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of the night, haddiscerned what experienced nurses significantly call "a change." the outer door was quickly opened, and tom,who was watching outside, was on the alert, in a moment. "go for the doctor, tom! lose not amoment," said miss ophelia; and, stepping across the room, she rapped at st. clare'sdoor. "cousin," she said, "i wish you wouldcome." those words fell on his heart like clodsupon a coffin.

why did they? he was up and in the room in an instant,and bending over eva, who still slept. what was it he saw that made his heartstand still? why was no word spoken between the two? thou canst say, who hast seen that sameexpression on the face dearest to thee;-- that look indescribable, hopeless,unmistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no longer thine. on the face of the child, however, therewas no ghastly imprint,--only a high and almost sublime expression,--theovershadowing presence of spiritual

natures, the dawning of immortal life inthat childish soul. they stood there so still, gazing upon her,that even the ticking of the watch seemed too loud. in a few moments, tom returned, with thedoctor. he entered, gave one look, and stood silentas the rest. "when did this change take place?" said he,in a low whisper, to miss ophelia. "about the turn of the night," was thereply. marie, roused by the entrance of thedoctor, appeared, hurriedly, from the next room."augustine!

cousin!--o!--what!" she hurriedly began. "hush!" said st. clare, hoarsely; "she isdying!" mammy heard the words, and flew to awakenthe servants. the house was soon roused,--lights wereseen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the verandah, and looked tearfullythrough the glass doors; but st. clare heard and said nothing,--he saw only thatlook on the face of the little sleeper. "o, if she would only wake, and speak oncemore!" he said; and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear,--"eva, darling!" the large blue eyes unclosed--a smilepassed over her face;--she tried to raise

her head, and to speak."do you know me, eva?" "dear papa," said the child, with a lasteffort, throwing her arms about his neck. in a moment they dropped again; and, as st.clare raised his head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face,--shestruggled for breath, and threw up her little hands. "o, god, this is dreadful!" he said,turning away in agony, and wringing tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing."o, tom, my boy, it is killing me!" tom had his master's hands between his own;and, with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he hadalways been used to look.

"pray that this may be cut short!" said st.clare,--"this wrings my heart." "o, bless the lord! it's over,--it's over,dear master!" said tom; "look at her." the child lay panting on her pillows, asone exhausted,--the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed.ah, what said those eyes, that spoke so much of heaven! earth was past,--and earthly pain; but sosolemn, so mysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checkedeven the sobs of sorrow. they pressed around her, in breathlessstillness. "eva," said st. clare, gently.she did not hear.

"o, eva, tell us what you see! what is it?" said her father.a bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, brokenly,--"o! love,--joy,--peace!" gave one sigh and passed from death unto life! "farewell, beloved child! the bright,eternal doors have closed after thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. o, woe for them who watched thy entranceinto heaven, when they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life, andthou gone forever!" chapter xxvii"this is the last of earth"

(note: "this is the last of earth!i am content," last words of john quincy adams, uttered february 21, 1848.) the statuettes and pictures in eva's roomwere shrouded in white napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled footfallswere heard there, and the light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkenedby closed blinds. the bed was draped in white; and there,beneath the drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form,--sleeping never towaken! there she lay, robed in one of the simplewhite dresses she had been wont to wear when living; the rose-colored light throughthe curtains cast over the icy coldness of

death a warm glow. the heavy eyelashes drooped softly on thepure cheek; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural steep, but therewas diffused over every lineament of the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, whichshowed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred rest which "hegiveth to his beloved." there is no death to such as thou, deareva! neither darkness nor shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when themorning star fades in the golden dawn. thine is the victory without the battle,--the crown without the conflict.

so did st. clare think, as, with foldedarms, he stood there gazing. ah! who shall say what he did think? for,from the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, "she is gone," it had beenall a dreary mist, a heavy "dimness of anguish." he had heard voices around him; he had hadquestions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when he would have thefuneral, and where they should lay her; and he had answered, impatiently, that he carednot. adolph and rosa had arranged the chamber;volatile, fickle and childish, as they generally were, they were soft-hearted andfull of feeling; and, while miss ophelia

presided over the general details of order and neatness, it was their hands that addedthose soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took from the death-roomthe grim and ghastly air which too often marks a new england funeral. there were still flowers on the shelves,--all white, delicate and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. eva's little table, covered with white,bore on it her favorite vase, with a single white moss rose-bud in it. the folds of the drapery, the fall of thecurtains, had been arranged and rearranged,

by adolph and rosa, with that nicety of eyewhich characterizes their race. even now, while st. clare stood therethinking, little rosa tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. she stepped back when she saw st. clare,and stopped respectfully; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she came forward toplace them around the dead. st. clare saw her as in a dream, while sheplaced in the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with admirable taste,disposed other flowers around the couch. the door opened again, and topsy, her eyesswelled with crying, appeared, holding something under her apron.rosa made a quick forbidding gesture; but

she took a step into the room. "you must go out," said rosa, in a sharp,positive whisper; "you haven't any business here!""o, do let me! i brought a flower,--such a pretty one!"said topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud."do let me put just one there." "get along!" said rosa, more decidedly. "let her stay!" said st. clare, suddenlystamping his foot. "she shall come." rosa suddenly retreated, and topsy cameforward and laid her offering at the feet

of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wildand bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept, andmoaned aloud. miss ophelia hastened into the room, andtried to raise and silence her; but in vain. "o, miss eva! oh, miss eva!i wish i 's dead, too,--i do!" there was a piercing wildness in the cry;the blood flushed into st. clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears hehad shed since eva died stood in his eyes. "get up, child," said miss ophelia, in asoftened voice; "don't cry so. miss eva is gone to heaven; she is anangel."

"but i can't see her!" said topsy. "i never shall see her!" and she sobbedagain. they all stood a moment in silence."she said she loved me," said topsy,--"she did! o, dear! oh, dear! there an't nobody leftnow,--there an't!" "that's true enough" said st. clare; "butdo," he said to miss ophelia, "see if you can't comfort the poor creature." "i jist wish i hadn't never been born,"said topsy. "i didn't want to be born, no ways; and idon't see no use on 't."

miss ophelia raised her gently, but firmly,and took her from the room; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her eyes."topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into her room, "don't give up! i can love you, though i am not like thatdear little child. i hope i've learnt something of the love ofchrist from her. i can love you; i do, and i'll try to helpyou to grow up a good christian girl." miss ophelia's voice was more than herwords, and more than that were the honest tears that fell down her face. from that hour, she acquired an influenceover the mind of the destitute child that

she never lost. "o, my eva, whose little hour on earth didso much of good," thought st. clare, "what account have i to give for my long years?" there were, for a while, soft whisperingsand footfalls in the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the dead; andthen came the little coffin; and then there was a funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers came and were seated;and there were white scarfs and ribbons, and crape bands, and mourners dressed inblack crape; and there were words read from the bible, and prayers offered; and st.

clare lived, and walked, and moved, as onewho has shed every tear;--to the last he saw only one thing, that golden head in thecoffin; but then he saw the cloth spread over it, the lid of the coffin closed; and he walked, when he was put beside theothers, down to a little place at the bottom of the garden, and there, by themossy seat where she and tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the littlegrave. st. clare stood beside it,--looked vacantlydown; he saw them lower the little coffin; he heard, dimly, the solemn words, "i amthe resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet

shall he live;" and, as the earth was castin and filled up the little grave, he could not realize that it was his eva that theywere hiding from his sight. nor was it!--not eva, but only the frailseed of that bright, immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in the dayof the lord jesus! and then all were gone, and the mournerswent back to the place which should know her no more; and marie's room was darkened,and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the attentions of all herservants. of course, they had no time to cry,--whyshould they? the grief was her grief, and

she was fully convinced that nobody onearth did, could, or would feel it as she did. "st. clare did not shed a tear," she said;"he didn't sympathize with her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how she suffered." so much are people the slave of their eyeand ear, that many of the servants really thought that missis was the principalsufferer in the case, especially as marie began to have hysterical spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declaredherself dying; and, in the running and

scampering, and bringing up hot bottles,and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing, that ensued, there was quite adiversion. tom, however, had a feeling at his ownheart, that drew him to his master. he followed him wherever he walked,wistfully and sadly; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in eva's room,holding before his eyes her little open bible, though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there was more sorrow totom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all marie's moans and lamentations. in a few days the st. clare family wereback again in the city; augustine, with the

restlessness of grief, longing for anotherscene, to change the current of his so they left the house and garden, with itslittle grave, and came back to new orleans; and st. clare walked the streets busily,and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry and bustle, and change of place; and people who saw him in thestreet, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the weed on his hat; for therehe was, smiling and talking, and reading the newspaper, and speculating on politics, and attending to business matters; and whocould see that all this smiling outside was but a hollowed shell over a heart that wasa dark and silent sepulchre?

"mr. st. clare is a singular man," saidmarie to miss ophelia, in a complaining tone. "i used to think, if there was anything inthe world he did love, it was our dear little eva; but he seems to be forgettingher very easily. i cannot ever get him to talk about her. i really did think he would show morefeeling!" "still waters run deepest, they used totell me," said miss ophelia, oracularly. "o, i don't believe in such things; it'sall talk. if people have feeling, they will show it,--they can't help it; but, then, it's a

great misfortune to have feeling. i'd rather have been made like st. clare.my feelings prey upon me so!" "sure, missis, mas'r st. clare is gettin'thin as a shader. they say, he don't never eat nothin'," saidmammy. "i know he don't forget miss eva; i knowthere couldn't nobody,--dear, little, blessed cretur!" she added, wiping hereyes. "well, at all events, he has noconsideration for me," said marie; "he hasn't spoken one word of sympathy, and hemust know how much more a mother feels than any man can."

"the heart knoweth its own bitterness,"said miss ophelia, gravely. "that's just what i think.i know just what i feel,--nobody else seems to. eva used to, but she is gone!" and marielay back on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately. marie was one of those unfortunatelyconstituted mortals, in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which itnever had in possession. whatever she had, she seemed to survey onlyto pick flaws in it; but, once fairly away, there was no end to her valuation of it.

while this conversation was taking place inthe parlor another was going on in st. clare's library. tom, who was always uneasily following hismaster about, had seen him go to his library, some hours before; and, aftervainly waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to make an errand in. he entered softly.st. clare lay on his lounge, at the further end of the room.he was lying on his face, with eva's bible open before him, at a little distance. tom walked up, and stood by the sofa.he hesitated; and, while he was hesitating,

st. clare suddenly raised himself up. the honest face, so full of grief, and withsuch an imploring expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master.he laid his hand on tom's, and bowed down his forehead on it. "o, tom, my boy, the whole world is asempty as an egg-shell." "i know it, mas'r,--i know it," said tom;"but, oh, if mas'r could only look up,--up where our dear miss eva is,--up to the dearlord jesus!" "ah, tom! i do look up; but the trouble is, i don'tsee anything, when i do, i wish i could."

tom sighed heavily. "it seems to be given to children, andpoor, honest fellows, like you, to see what we can't," said st. clare."how comes it?" "thou has 'hid from the wise and prudent,and revealed unto babes,'" murmured tom; "'even so, father, for so it seemed good inthy sight.'" "tom, i don't believe,--i can't believe,--i've got the habit of doubting," said st. clare."i want to believe this bible,--and i can't." "dear mas'r, pray to the good lord,--'lord,i believe; help thou my unbelief.'"

"who knows anything about anything?" saidst. clare, his eyes wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. "was all that beautiful love and faith onlyone of the ever-shifting phases of human feeling, having nothing real to rest on,passing away with the little breath? and is there no more eva,--no heaven,--nochrist,--nothing?" "o, dear mas'r, there is!i know it; i'm sure of it," said tom, falling on his knees. "do, do, dear mas'r, believe it!""how do you know there's any christ, tom! you never saw the lord.""felt him in my soul, mas'r,--feel him now!

o, mas'r, when i was sold away from my oldwoman and the children, i was jest a'most broke up. i felt as if there warn't nothin' left; andthen the good lord, he stood by me, and he says, 'fear not, tom;' and he brings lightand joy in a poor feller's soul,--makes all peace; and i 's so happy, and loves everybody, and feels willin' jest to be thelord's, and have the lord's will done, and be put jest where the lord wants to put me. i know it couldn't come from me, cause i 'sa poor, complainin' cretur; it comes from the lord; and i know he's willin' to do formas'r."

tom spoke with fast-running tears andchoking voice. st. clare leaned his head on his shoulder,and wrung the hard, faithful, black hand. "tom, you love me," he said. "i 's willin' to lay down my life, thisblessed day, to see mas'r a christian." "poor, foolish boy!" said st. clare, half-raising himself. "i'm not worth the love of one good, honestheart, like yours." "o, mas'r, dere's more than me loves you,--the blessed lord jesus loves you." "how do you know that tom?" said st. clare. "feels it in my soul.o, mas'r!

'the love of christ, that passethknowledge.'" "singular!" said st. clare, turning away,"that the story of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affectpeople so yet. but he was no man," he added, suddenly. "no man ever had such long and livingpower! o, that i could believe what my mothertaught me, and pray as i did when i was a boy!" "if mas'r pleases," said tom, "miss evaused to read this so beautifully. i wish mas'r'd be so good as read it.don't get no readin', hardly, now miss

eva's gone." the chapter was the eleventh of john,--thetouching account of the raising of lazarus, st. clare read it aloud, often pausing towrestle down feelings which were roused by the pathos of the story. tom knelt before him, with clasped hands,and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adoration, on his quiet face."tom," said his master, "this is all real to you!" "i can jest fairly see it mas'r," said tom."i wish i had your eyes, tom." "i wish, to the dear lord, mas'r had!"

"but, tom, you know that i have a greatdeal more knowledge than you; what if i should tell you that i don't believe thisbible?" "o, mas'r!" said tom, holding up his hands,with a deprecating gesture. "wouldn't it shake your faith some, tom?""not a grain," said tom. "why, tom, you must know i know the most." "o, mas'r, haven't you jest read how hehides from the wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes?but mas'r wasn't in earnest, for sartin, now?" said tom, anxiously. "no, tom, i was not.i don't disbelieve, and i think there is

reason to believe; and still i don't.it's a troublesome bad habit i've got, tom." "if mas'r would only pray!""how do you know i don't, tom?" "does mas'r?" "i would, tom, if there was anybody therewhen i pray; but it's all speaking unto nothing, when i do.but come, tom, you pray now, and show me how." tom's heart was full; he poured it out inprayer, like waters that have been long suppressed.

one thing was plain enough; tom thoughtthere was somebody to hear, whether there were or not. in fact, st. clare felt himself borne, onthe tide of his faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven he seemed sovividly to conceive. it seemed to bring him nearer to eva. "thank you, my boy," said st. clare, whentom rose. "i like to hear you, tom; but go, now, andleave me alone; some other time, i'll talk more." tom silently left the room.

chapter xxviiireunion week after week glided away in the st.clare mansion, and the waves of life settled back to their usual flow, wherethat little bark had gone down. for how imperiously, how coolly, indisregard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of dailyrealities move on! still must we eat, and drink, and sleep,and wake again,--still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions,--pursue, inshort, a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living remaining, afterall vital interest in it has fled.

all the interests and hopes of st. clare'slife had unconsciously wound themselves around this child. it was for eva that he had managed hisproperty; it was for eva that he had planned the disposal of his time; and, todo this and that for eva,--to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose something for her,--had been so long his habit, thatnow she was gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done. true, there was another life,--a lifewhich, once believed in, stands as a solemn, significant figure before theotherwise unmeaning ciphers of time,

changing them to orders of mysterious,untold value. st. clare knew this well; and often, inmany a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish voice calling him to the skies,and saw that little hand pointing to him the way of life; but a heavy lethargy ofsorrow lay on him,--he could not arise. he had one of those natures which couldbetter and more clearly conceive of religious things from its own perceptionsand instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical christian. the gift to appreciate and the sense tofeel the finer shades and relations of moral things, often seems an attribute ofthose whose whole life shows a careless

disregard of them. hence moore, byron, goethe, often speakwords more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment, than another man,whose whole life is governed by it. in such minds, disregard of religion is amore fearful treason,--a more deadly sin. st. clare had never pretended to governhimself by any religious obligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such aninstinctive view of the extent of the requirements of christianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he feltwould be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did resolve toassume them.

for, so inconsistent is human nature,especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better thanto undertake and come short. still st. clare was, in many respects,another man. he read his little eva's bible seriouslyand honestly; he thought more soberly and practically of his relations to hisservants,--enough to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his past and present course; and one thing he did, soon afterhis return to new orleans, and that was to commence the legal steps necessary to tom'semancipation, which was to be perfected as soon as he could get through the necessaryformalities.

meantime, he attached himself to tom moreand more, every day. in all the wide world, there was nothingthat seemed to remind him so much of eva; and he would insist on keeping himconstantly about him, and, fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud totom. nor would any one have wondered at it, whohad seen the expression of affection and devotion with which tom continuallyfollowed his young master. "well, tom," said st. clare, the day afterhe had commenced the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, "i'm going to make afree man of you;--so have your trunk

packed, and get ready to set out forkentuck." the sudden light of joy that shone in tom'sface as he raised his hands to heaven, his emphatic "bless the lord!" ratherdiscomposed st. clare; he did not like it that tom should be so ready to leave him. "you haven't had such very bad times here,that you need be in such a rapture, tom," he said drily."no, no, mas'r! 'tan't that,--it's bein' a freeman! that'swhat i'm joyin' for." "why, tom, don't you think, for your ownpart, you've been better off than to be free?"

"no, indeed, mas'r st. clare," said tom,with a flash of energy. "no, indeed!" "why, tom, you couldn't possibly haveearned, by your work, such clothes and such living as i have given you." "knows all that, mas'r st. clare; mas'r'sbeen too good; but, mas'r, i'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything,and have 'em mine, than have the best, and have 'em any man's else,--i had so, mas'r;i think it's natur, mas'r." "i suppose so, tom, and you'll be going offand leaving me, in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly.

"though why you shouldn't, no mortalknows," he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the floor."not while mas'r is in trouble," said tom. "i'll stay with mas'r as long as he wantsme,--so as i can be any use." "not while i'm in trouble, tom?" said st.clare, looking sadly out of the window...."and when will my trouble beover?" "when mas'r st. clare's a christian," saidtom. "and you really mean to stay by till thatday comes?" said st. clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid hishand on tom's shoulder. "ah, tom, you soft, silly boy!

i won't keep you till that day.go home to your wife and children, and give my love to all." "i 's faith to believe that day will come,"said tom, earnestly, and with tears in his eyes; "the lord has a work for mas'r." "a work, hey?" said st. clare, "well, now,tom, give me your views on what sort of a work it is;--let's hear." "why, even a poor fellow like me has a workfrom the lord; and mas'r st. clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,--howmuch he might do for the lord!" "tom, you seem to think the lord needs agreat deal done for him," said st. clare,

smiling."we does for the lord when we does for his critturs," said tom. "good theology, tom; better than dr. b.preaches, i dare swear," said st. clare. the conversation was here interrupted bythe announcement of some visitors. marie st. clare felt the loss of eva asdeeply as she could feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great faculty ofmaking everybody unhappy when she was, her immediate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss of their youngmistress, whose winning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a shield tothem from the tyrannical and selfish

exactions of her mother. poor old mammy, in particular, whose heart,severed from all natural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautifulbeing, was almost heart-broken. she cried day and night, and was, fromexcess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in her ministrations of her mistress thanusual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head. miss ophelia felt the loss; but, in hergood and honest heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life. she was more softened, more gentle; and,though equally assiduous in every duty, it

was with a chastened and quiet air, as onewho communed with her own heart not in she was more diligent in teaching topsy,--taught her mainly from the bible,--did not any longer shrink from her touch, ormanifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. she viewed her now through the softenedmedium that eva's hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in her only animmortal creature, whom god had sent to be led by her to glory and virtue. topsy did not become at once a saint; butthe life and death of eva did work a marked change in her.

the callous indifference was gone; therewas now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good,--a strife irregular,interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again. one day, when topsy had been sent for bymiss ophelia, she came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom."what are you doing there, you limb? you've been stealing something, i'll bebound," said the imperious little rosa, who had been sent to call her, seizing her, atthe same time, roughly by the arm. "you go 'long, miss rosa!" said topsy,pulling from her; "'tan't none o' your business!"

"none o' your sa'ce!" said rosa, "i saw youhiding something,--i know yer tricks," and rosa seized her arm, and tried to force herhand into her bosom, while topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for what sheconsidered her rights. the clamor and confusion of the battle drewmiss ophelia and st. clare both to the spot. "she's been stealing!" said rosa."i han't, neither!" vociferated topsy, sobbing with passion."give me that, whatever it is!" said miss ophelia, firmly. topsy hesitated; but, on a second order,pulled out of her bosom a little parcel

done up in the foot of one of her own oldstockings. miss ophelia turned it out. there was a small book, which had beengiven to topsy by eva, containing a single verse of scripture, arranged for every dayin the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that memorable day when she had taken her lastfarewell. st. clare was a good deal affected at thesight of it; the little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, tornfrom the funeral weeds. "what did you wrap this round the bookfor?" said st. clare, holding up the crape.

"cause,--cause,--cause 't was miss eva. o, don't take 'em away, please!" she said;and, sitting flat down on the floor, and putting her apron over her head, she beganto sob vehemently. it was a curious mixture of the patheticand the ludicrous,--the little old stockings,--black crape,--text-book,--fair,soft curl,--and topsy's utter distress. st. clare smiled; but there were tears inhis eyes, as he said, "come, come,--don't cry; you shall havethem!" and, putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew miss opheliawith him into the parlor. "i really think you can make something ofthat concern," he said, pointing with his

thumb backward over his shoulder."any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. you must try and do something with her.""the child has improved greatly," said miss ophelia. "i have great hopes of her; but,augustine," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "one thing i want to ask; whose isthis child to be?--yours or mine?" "why, i gave her to you," said augustine. "but not legally;--i want her to be minelegally," said miss ophelia. "whew! cousin," said augustine."what will the abolition society think?

they'll have a day of fasting appointed forthis backsliding, if you become a slaveholder!""o, nonsense! i want her mine, that i may have a right totake her to the free states, and give her her liberty, that all i am trying to do benot undone." "o, cousin, what an awful 'doing evil thatgood may come'! i can't encourage it.""i don't want you to joke, but to reason," said miss ophelia. "there is no use in my trying to make thischild a christian child, unless i save her from all the chances and reverses ofslavery; and, if you really are willing i

should have her, i want you to give me adeed of gift, or some legal paper." "well, well," said st. clare, "i will;" andhe sat down, and unfolded a newspaper to read. "but i want it done now," said missophelia. "what's your hurry?""because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said miss ophelia. "come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink;just write a paper." st. clare, like most men of his class ofmind, cordially hated the present tense of action, generally; and, therefore, he wasconsiderably annoyed by miss ophelia's

downrightness. "why, what's the matter?" said he."can't you take my word? one would think you had taken lessons ofthe jews, coming at a fellow so!" "i want to make sure of it," said missophelia. "you may die, or fail, and then topsy behustled off to auction, spite of all i can do." "really, you are quite provident. well, seeing i'm in the hands of a yankee,there is nothing for it but to concede;" and st. clare rapidly wrote off a deed ofgift, which, as he was well versed in the

forms of law, he could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawlingcapitals, concluding by a tremendous flourish. "there, isn't that black and white, now,miss vermont?" he said, as he handed it to her."good boy," said miss ophelia, smiling. "but must it not be witnessed?" "o, bother!--yes.here," he said, opening the door into marie's apartment, "marie, cousin wantsyour autograph; just put your name down here."

"what's this?" said marie, as she ran overthe paper. "ridiculous! i thought cousin was too pious for suchhorrid things," she added, as she carelessly wrote her name; "but, if she hasa fancy for that article, i am sure she's welcome." "there, now, she's yours, body and soul,"said st. clare, handing the paper. "no more mine now than she was before,"miss ophelia. "nobody but god has a right to give her tome; but i can protect her now." "well, she's yours by a fiction of law,then," said st. clare, as he turned back

into the parlor, and sat down to his paper. miss ophelia, who seldom sat much inmarie's company, followed him into the parlor, having first carefully laid awaythe paper. "augustine," she said, suddenly, as she satknitting, "have you ever made any provision for your servants, in case of your death?""no," said st. clare, as he read on. "then all your indulgence to them may provea great cruelty, by and by." st. clare had often thought the same thinghimself; but he answered, negligently. "well, i mean to make a provision, by andby." "when?" said miss ophelia."o, one of these days."

"what if you should die first?" "cousin, what's the matter?" said st.clare, laying down his paper and looking at her. "do you think i show symptoms of yellowfever or cholera, that you are making post mortem arrangements with such zeal?""'in the midst of life we are in death,'" st. clare rose up, and laying the paperdown, carelessly, walked to the door that stood open on the verandah, to put an endto a conversation that was not agreeable to him. mechanically, he repeated the last wordagain,--"death!"--and, as he leaned against

the railings, and watched the sparklingwater as it rose and fell in the fountain; and, as in a dim and dizzy haze, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts,he repeated, again the mystic word so common in every mouth, yet of such fearfulpower,--"death!" "strange that there should be such a word,"he said, "and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warmand beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be gone,utterly gone, and forever!" it was a warm, golden evening; and, as hewalked to the other end of the verandah, he saw tom busily intent on his bible,pointing, as he did so, with his finger to

each successive word, and whispering themto himself with an earnest air. "want me to read to you, tom?" said st.clare, seating himself carelessly by him. "if mas'r pleases," said tom, gratefully,"mas'r makes it so much plainer." st. clare took the book and glanced at theplace, and began reading one of the passages which tom had designated by theheavy marks around it. it ran as follows: "when the son of man shall come in hisglory, and all his holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of hisglory: and before him shall be gathered all nations; and he shall separate them one

from another, as a shepherd divideth hissheep from the goats." st. clare read on in an animated voice,till he came to the last of the verses. "then shall the king say unto him on hisleft hand, depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire: for i was an hungered,and ye gave me no meat: i was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: i was a stranger, an ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed menot: i was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not. then shall they answer unto him, lord whensaw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison,and did not minister unto thee?

then shall he say unto them, inasmuch as yedid it not to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me." st. clare seemed struck with this lastpassage, for he read it twice,--the second time slowly, and as if he were revolvingthe words in his mind. "tom," he said, "these folks that get suchhard measure seem to have been doing just what i have,--living good, easy,respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were hungry or athirst, or sick,or in prison." tom did not answer.

st. clare rose up and walked thoughtfullyup and down the verandah, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbedwas he, that tom had to remind him twice that the teabell had rung, before he couldget his attention. st. clare was absent and thoughtful, alltea-time. after tea, he and marie and miss opheliatook possession of the parlor almost in silence. marie disposed herself on a lounge, under asilken mosquito curtain, and was soon sound asleep.miss ophelia silently busied herself with her knitting.

st. clare sat down to the piano, and beganplaying a soft and melancholy movement with the aeolian accompaniment.he seemed in a deep reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. after a little, he opened one of thedrawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves were yellow with age, and beganturning it over. "there," he said to miss ophelia, "this wasone of my mother's books,--and here is her handwriting,--come and look at it.she copied and arranged this from mozart's requiem." miss ophelia came accordingly."it was something she used to sing often,"

said st. clare."i think i can hear her now." he struck a few majestic chords, and begansinging that grand old latin piece, the "dies irae." tom, who was listening in the outerverandah, was drawn by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. he did not understand the words, of course;but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, especiallywhen st. clare sang the more pathetic parts. tom would have sympathized more heartily,if he had known the meaning of the

beautiful words: recordare jesu piequod sum causa tuar viae ne me perdas, illa die querens me sedisti lassusredemisti crucem passus tantus laor non sit cassus.these lines have been thus rather inadequately translated: think, o jesus, for what reasonthou endured'st earth's spite and treason, nor me lose, in that dread season; seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,on the cross thy soul death tasted,

let not all these toils be wasted.[mrs. stowe's note.] st. clare threw a deep and patheticexpression into the words; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and heseemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. voice and instrument seemed both living,and threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal mozart firstconceived as his own dying requiem. when st. clare had done singing, he satleaning his head upon his hand a few moments, and then began walking up and downthe floor. "what a sublime conception is that of alast judgment!" said he,--"a righting of

all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of allmoral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom! it is, indeed, a wonderful image." "it is a fearful one to us," said missophelia. "it ought to be to me, i suppose," said st.clare stopping, thoughtfully. "i was reading to tom, this afternoon, thatchapter in matthew that gives an account of it, and i have been quite struck with it. one should have expected some terribleenormities charged to those who are excluded from heaven, as the reason; butno,--they are condemned for not doing positive good, as if that included everypossible harm."

"perhaps," said miss ophelia, "it isimpossible for a person who does no good not to do harm." "and what," said st. clare, speakingabstractedly, but with deep feeling, "what shall be said of one whose own heart, whoseeducation, and the wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose; who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectatorof the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of man, when he should have been a worker?""i should say," said miss ophelia, "that he ought to repent, and begin now." "always practical and to the point!" saidst. clare, his face breaking out into a

smile. "you never leave me any time for generalreflections, cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present; youhave a kind of eternal now, always in your mind." "now is all the time i have anything to dowith," said miss ophelia. "dear little eva,--poor child!" said st.clare, "she had set her little simple soul on a good work for me." it was the first time since eva's deaththat he had ever said as many words as these to her, and he spoke now evidentlyrepressing very strong feeling.

"my view of christianity is such," headded, "that i think no man can consistently profess it without throwingthe whole weight of his being against this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the foundation of all our society; and, ifneed be, sacrificing himself in the battle. that is, i mean that i could not be achristian otherwise, though i have certainly had intercourse with a great manyenlightened and christian people who did no such thing; and i confess that the apathy of religious people on this subject, theirwant of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, have engendered in me morescepticism than any other thing."

"if you knew all this," said miss ophelia,"why didn't you do it?" "o, because i have had only that kind ofbenevolence which consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy fornot being martyrs and confessors. one can see, you know, very easily, howothers ought to be martyrs." "well, are you going to do differentlynow?" said miss ophelia. "god only knows the future," said st.clare. "i am braver than i was, because i havelost all; and he who has nothing to lose can afford all risks." "and what are you going to do?"

"my duty, i hope, to the poor and lowly, asfast as i find it out," said st. clare, "beginning with my own servants, for whom ihave yet done nothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it may appear that i can do something for a whole class; somethingto save my country from the disgrace of that false position in which she now standsbefore all civilized nations." "do you suppose it possible that a nationever will voluntarily emancipate?" said miss ophelia."i don't know," said st. clare. "this is a day of great deeds. heroism and disinterestedness are risingup, here and there, in the earth.

the hungarian nobles set free millions ofserfs, at an immense pecuniary loss; and, perhaps, among us may be found generousspirits, who do not estimate honor and justice by dollars and cents." "i hardly think so," said miss ophelia."but, suppose we should rise up tomorrow and emancipate, who would educate thesemillions, and teach them how to use their freedom? they never would rise to do much among us.the fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, ourselves, ever to give themmuch of an idea of that industry and energy which is necessary to form them into men.

they will have to go north, where labor isthe fashion,--the universal custom; and tell me, now, is there enough christianphilanthropy, among your northern states, to bear with the process of their educationand elevation? you send thousands of dollars to foreignmissions; but could you endure to have the heathen sent into your towns and villages,and give your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the christianstandard? that's what i want to know.if we emancipate, are you willing to educate? how many families, in your town, would takea negro man and woman, teach them, bear

with them, and seek to make themchristians? how many merchants would take adolph, if iwanted to make him a clerk; or mechanics, if i wanted him taught a trade? if i wanted to put jane and rosa to aschool, how many schools are there in the northern states that would take them in?how many families that would board them? and yet they are as white as many a woman,north or south. you see, cousin, i want justice done us.we are in a bad position. we are the more obvious oppressors of thenegro; but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equallysevere."

"well, cousin, i know it is so," said missophelia,--"i know it was so with me, till i saw that it was my duty to overcome it;but, i trust i have overcome it; and i know there are many good people at the north, who in this matter need only to be taughtwhat their duty is, to do it. it would certainly be a greater self-denialto receive heathen among us, than to send missionaries to them; but i think we woulddo it." "you would, i know," said st. clare. "i'd like to see anything you wouldn't do,if you thought it your duty!" "well, i'm not uncommonly good," said missophelia.

"others would, if they saw things as i do. i intend to take topsy home, when i go.i suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but i think they will be brought to see asi do. besides, i know there are many people atthe north who do exactly what you said." "yes, but they are a minority; and, if weshould begin to emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you." miss ophelia did not reply.there was a pause of some moments; and st. clare's countenance was overcast by a sad,dreamy expression. "i don't know what makes me think of mymother so much, tonight," he said.

"i have a strange kind of feeling, as ifshe were near me. i keep thinking of things she used to say. strange, what brings these past things sovividly back to us, sometimes!" st. clare walked up and down the room forsome minutes more, and then said, "i believe i'll go down street, a fewmoments, and hear the news, tonight." he took his hat, and passed out.tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and asked if he should attend him. "no, my boy," said st. clare."i shall be back in an hour." tom sat down in the verandah.

it was a beautiful moonlight evening, andhe sat watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, and listening to itsmurmur. tom thought of his home, and that he shouldsoon be a free man, and able to return to it at will.he thought how he should work to buy his wife and boys. he felt the muscles of his brawny arms witha sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong to himself, and how much theycould do to work out the freedom of his family. then he thought of his noble young master,and, ever second to that, came the habitual

prayer that he had always offered for him;and then his thoughts passed on to the beautiful eva, whom he now thought of among the angels; and he thought till he almostfancied that that bright face and golden hair were looking upon him, out of thespray of the fountain. and, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamedhe saw her coming bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath ofjessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from theground; her cheeks wore a paler hue,--her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a goldenhalo seemed around her head,--and she

vanished from his sight; and tom was awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound ofmany voices at the gate. he hastened to undo it; and, with smotheredvoices and heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, andlying on a shutter. the light of the lamp fell full on theface; and tom gave a wild cry of amazement and despair, that rung through all thegalleries, as the men advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor door, where missophelia still sat knitting. st. clare had turned into a cafe, to lookover an evening paper. as he was reading, an affray arose betweentwo gentlemen in the room, who were both

partially intoxicated. st. clare and one or two others made aneffort to separate them, and st. clare received a fatal stab in the side with abowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them. the house was full of cries andlamentations, shrieks and screams, servants frantically tearing their hair, throwingthemselves on the ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting. tom and miss ophelia alone seemed to haveany presence of mind; for marie was in strong hysteric convulsions.

at miss ophelia's direction, one of thelounges in the parlor was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. st. clare had fainted, through pain andloss of blood; but, as miss ophelia applied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes,looked fixedly on them, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully over every object, and finallythey rested on his mother's picture. the physician now arrived, and made hisexamination. it was evident, from the expression of hisface, that there was no hope; but he applied himself to dressing the wound, andhe and miss ophelia and tom proceeded

composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of theaffrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and windows of theverandah. "now," said the physician, "we must turnall these creatures out; all depends on his being kept quiet." st. clare opened his eyes, and lookedfixedly on the distressed beings, whom miss ophelia and the doctor were trying to urgefrom the apartment. "poor creatures!" he said, and anexpression of bitter self-reproach passed over his face.adolph absolutely refused to go.

terror had deprived him of all presence ofmind; he threw himself along the floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. the rest yielded to miss ophelia's urgentrepresentations, that their master's safety depended on their stillness and obedience. st. clare could say but little; he lay withhis eyes shut, but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. after a while, he laid his hand on tom's,who was kneeling beside him, and said, "tom! poor fellow!""what, mas'r?" said tom, earnestly. "i am dying!" said st. clare, pressing hishand; "pray!"

"if you would like a clergyman--" said thephysician. st. clare hastily shook his head, and saidagain to tom, more earnestly, "pray!" and tom did pray, with all his mind andstrength, for the soul that was passing,-- the soul that seemed looking so steadilyand mournfully from those large, melancholy blue eyes. it was literally prayer offered with strongcrying and tears. when tom ceased to speak, st. clare reachedout and took his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. he closed his eyes, but still retained hishold; for, in the gates of eternity, the

black hand and the white hold each otherwith an equal clasp. he murmured softly to himself, at brokenintervals, "recordare jesu pie-- ne me perdas--illadie querens me--sedisti lassus." it was evident that the words he had beensinging that evening were passing through his mind,--words of entreaty addressed toinfinite pity. his lips moved at intervals, as parts ofthe hymn fell brokenly from them. "his mind is wandering," said the doctor."no! it is coming home, at last!" said st. clare, energetically; "at last! at last!" the effort of speaking exhausted him.

the sinking paleness of death fell on him;but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautifulexpression of peace, like that of a wearied child who sleeps. so he lay for a few moments.they saw that the mighty hand was on him. just before the spirit parted, he openedhis eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and said "mother!" andthen he was gone! chapter xxixthe unprotected we hear often of the distress of the negroservants, on the loss of a kind master; and with good reason, for no creature on god'searth is left more utterly unprotected and

desolate than the slave in thesecircumstances. the child who has lost a father has stillthe protection of friends, and of the law; he is something, and can do something,--hasacknowledged rights and position; the slave has none. the law regards him, in every respect, asdevoid of rights as a bale of merchandise. the only possible acknowledgment of any ofthe longings and wants of a human and immortal creature, which are given to him,comes to him through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master; and when that master is stricken down, nothingremains.

the number of those men who know how to usewholly irresponsible power humanely and generously is small. everybody knows this, and the slave knowsit best of all; so that he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an abusiveand tyrannical master, to one of his finding a considerate and kind one. therefore is it that the wail over a kindmaster is loud and long, as well it may be. when st. clare breathed his last, terrorand consternation took hold of all his household. he had been stricken down so in a moment,in the flower and strength of his youth!

every room and gallery of the houseresounded with sobs and shrieks of despair. marie, whose nervous system had beenenervated by a constant course of self- indulgence, had nothing to support theterror of the shock, and, at the time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one fainting fit to another; and he to whomshe had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage passed from her forever,without the possibility of even a parting word. miss ophelia, with characteristic strengthand self-control, had remained with her kinsman to the last,--all eye, all ear, allattention; doing everything of the little

that could be done, and joining with her whole soul in the tender and impassionedprayers which the poor slave had poured forth for the soul of his dying master. when they were arranging him for his lastrest, they found upon his bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with aspring. it was the miniature of a noble andbeautiful female face; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. they laid them back on the lifelessbreast,--dust to dust,--poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once madethat cold heart beat so warmly!

tom's whole soul was filled with thoughtsof eternity; and while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once thinkthat the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. he felt at peace about his master; for inthat hour, when he had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his father, he hadfound an answer of quietness and assurance springing up within himself. in the depths of his own affectionatenature, he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of divine love; for an oldoracle hath thus written,--"he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in god, and godin him."

tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace. but the funeral passed, with all itspageant of black crape, and prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool,muddy waves of every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of "what is tobe done next?" it rose to the mind of marie, as, dressedin loose morning-robes, and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a greateasy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bombazine. it rose to miss ophelia, who began to turnher thoughts towards her northern home. it rose, in silent terrors, to the minds ofthe servants, who well knew the unfeeling,

tyrannical character of the mistress inwhose hands they were left. all knew, very well, that the indulgenceswhich had been accorded to them were not from their mistress, but from their master;and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen between them and every tyrannous infliction which a temper soured byaffliction might devise. it was about a fortnight after the funeral,that miss ophelia, busied one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. she opened it, and there stood rosa, thepretty young quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her hair in disorder, andher eyes swelled with crying.

"o, miss feeley," she said, falling on herknees, and catching the skirt of her dress, "do, do go to miss marie for me! do pleadfor me! she's goin' to send me out to be whipped--look there!" and she handed to miss ophelia a paper. it was an order, written in marie'sdelicate italian hand, to the master of a whipping-establishment to give the bearerfifteen lashes. "what have you been doing?" said missophelia. "you know, miss feely, i've got such a badtemper; it's very bad of me. i was trying on miss marie's dress, and sheslapped my face; and i spoke out before i

thought, and was saucy; and she said thatshe'd bring me down, and have me know, once for all, that i wasn't going to be so topping as i had been; and she wrote this,and says i shall carry it. i'd rather she'd kill me, right out."miss ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand. "you see, miss feely," said rosa, "i don'tmind the whipping so much, if miss marie or you was to do it; but, to be sent to a man!and such a horrid man,--the shame of it, miss feely!" miss ophelia well knew that it was theuniversal custom to send women and young

girls to whipping-houses, to the hands ofthe lowest of men,--men vile enough to make this their profession,--there to be subjected to brutal exposure and shamefulcorrection. she had known it before; but hitherto shehad never realized it, till she saw the slender form of rosa almost convulsed withdistress. all the honest blood of womanhood, thestrong new england blood of liberty, flushed to her cheeks, and throbbedbitterly in her indignant heart; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mastered herself, and, crushing the paperfirmly in her hand, she merely said to

rosa,"sit down, child, while i go to your mistress." "shameful! monstrous! outrageous!" she saidto herself, as she was crossing the parlor. she found marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with mammy standing by her, combing her hair; jane sat on the ground beforeher, busy in chafing her feet. "how do you find yourself, today?" saidmiss ophelia. a deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, wasthe only reply, for a moment; and then marie answered, "o, i don't know, cousin;i suppose i'm as well as i ever shall be!" and marie wiped her eyes with a cambric

handkerchief, bordered with an inch deep ofblack. "i came," said miss ophelia, with a short,dry cough, such as commonly introduces a difficult subject,--"i came to speak withyou about poor rosa." marie's eyes were open wide enough now, anda flush rose to her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply,"well, what about her?" "she is very sorry for her fault." "she is, is she?she'll be sorrier, before i've done with her! i've endured that child's impudence longenough; and now i'll bring her down,--i'll

make her lie in the dust!" "but could not you punish her some otherway,--some way that would be less shameful?""i mean to shame her; that's just what i want. she has all her life presumed on herdelicacy, and her good looks, and her lady- like airs, till she forgets who she is;--and i'll give her one lesson that will bring her down, i fancy!" "but, cousin, consider that, if you destroydelicacy and a sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast.""delicacy!" said marie, with a scornful

laugh,--"a fine word for such as she! i'll teach her, with all her airs, thatshe's no better than the raggedest black wench that walks the streets!she'll take no more airs with me!" "you will answer to god for such cruelty!"said miss ophelia, with energy. "cruelty,--i'd like to know what thecruelty is! i wrote orders for only fifteen lashes, andtold him to put them on lightly. i'm sure there's no cruelty there!""no cruelty!" said miss ophelia. "i'm sure any girl might rather be killedoutright!" "it might seem so to anybody with yourfeeling; but all these creatures get used

to it; it's the only way they can be keptin order. once let them feel that they are to takeany airs about delicacy, and all that, and they'll run all over you, just as myservants always have. i've begun now to bring them under; andi'll have them all to know that i'll send one out to be whipped, as soon as another,if they don't mind themselves!" said marie, looking around her decidedly. jane hung her head and cowered at this, forshe felt as if it was particularly directed to her. miss ophelia sat for a moment, as if shehad swallowed some explosive mixture, and

were ready to burst. then, recollecting the utter uselessness ofcontention with such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely, gathered herself up, andwalked out of the room. it was hard to go back and tell rosa thatshe could do nothing for her; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to saythat her mistress had ordered him to take rosa with him to the whipping-house, whither she was hurried, in spite of hertears and entreaties. a few days after, tom was standing musingby the balconies, when he was joined by adolph, who, since the death of his master,had been entirely crest-fallen and

disconsolate. adolph knew that he had always been anobject of dislike to marie; but while his master lived he had paid but littleattention to it. now that he was gone, he had moved about indaily dread and trembling, not knowing what might befall him next. marie had held several consultations withher lawyer; after communicating with st. clare's brother, it was determined to sellthe place, and all the servants, except her own personal property, and these she intended to take with her, and go back toher father's plantation.

"do ye know, tom, that we've all got to besold?" said adolph, and go back to her father's plantation. "how did you hear that?" said tom."i hid myself behind the curtains when missis was talking with the lawyer.in a few days we shall be sent off to auction, tom." "the lord's will be done!" said tom,folding his arms and sighing heavily. "we'll never get another such a master,"said adolph, apprehensively; "but i'd rather be sold than take my chance undermissis." tom turned away; his heart was full.

the hope of liberty, the thought of distantwife and children, rose up before his patient soul, as to the mariner shipwreckedalmost in port rises the vision of the church-spire and loving roofs of his native village, seen over the top of some blackwave only for one last farewell. he drew his arms tightly over his bosom,and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. the poor old soul had such a singular,unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it was a hard wrench for him;and the more he said, "thy will be done," the worse he felt.

he sought miss ophelia, who, ever sinceeva's death, had treated him with marked and respectful kindness."miss feely," he said, "mas'r st. clare promised me my freedom. he told me that he had begun to take it outfor me; and now, perhaps, if miss feely would be good enough to speak bout it tomissis, she would feel like goin' on with it, was it as mas'r st. clare's wish." "i'll speak for you, tom, and do my best,"said miss ophelia; "but, if it depends on mrs. st. clare, i can't hope much for you;--nevertheless, i will try." this incident occurred a few days afterthat of rosa, while miss ophelia was busied

in preparations to return north. seriously reflecting within herself, sheconsidered that perhaps she had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her formerinterview with marie; and she resolved that she would now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory aspossible. so the good soul gathered herself up, and,taking her knitting, resolved to go into marie's room, be as agreeable as possible,and negotiate tom's case with all the diplomatic skill of which she was mistress. she found marie reclining at length upon alounge, supporting herself on one elbow by

pillows, while jane, who had been outshopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs. "that will do," said marie, selecting one;"only i'm not sure about its being properly mourning." "laws, missis," said jane, volubly, "mrs.general derbennon wore just this very thing, after the general died, last summer;it makes up lovely!" "what do you think?" said marie to missophelia. "it's a matter of custom, i suppose," saidmiss ophelia. "you can judge about it better than i."

"the fact is," said marie, "that i haven'ta dress in the world that i can wear; and, as i am going to break up theestablishment, and go off, next week, i must decide upon something." "are you going so soon?""yes. st. clare's brother has written, and he andthe lawyer think that the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction,and the place left with our lawyer." "there's one thing i wanted to speak withyou about," said miss ophelia. "augustine promised tom his liberty, andbegan the legal forms necessary to it. i hope you will use your influence to haveit perfected."

"indeed, i shall do no such thing!" saidmarie, sharply. "tom is one of the most valuable servantson the place,--it couldn't be afforded, any way.besides, what does he want of liberty? he's a great deal better off as he is." "but he does desire it, very earnestly, andhis master promised it," said miss ophelia. "i dare say he does want it," said marie;"they all want it, just because they are a discontented set,--always wanting what theyhaven't got. now, i'm principled against emancipating,in any case. keep a negro under the care of a master,and he does well enough, and is

respectable; but set them free, and theyget lazy, and won't work, and take to drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows, i've seen it tried,hundreds of times. it's no favor to set them free.""but tom is so steady, industrious, and pious." "o, you needn't tell me!i've see a hundred like him. he'll do very well, as long as he's takencare of,--that's all." "but, then, consider," said miss ophelia,"when you set him up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master."

"o, that's all humbug!" said marie; "itisn't one time in a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters aregood, for all the talk that is made. i've lived and grown up here, in the south,and i never yet was acquainted with a master that didn't treat his servantswell,--quite as well as is worth while. i don't feel any fears on that head." "well," said miss ophelia, energetically,"i know it was one of the last wishes of your husband that tom should have hisliberty; it was one of the promises that he made to dear little eva on her death-bed, and i should not think you would feel atliberty to disregard it."

marie had her face covered with herhandkerchief at this appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, withgreat vehemence. "everybody goes against me!" she said. "everybody is so inconsiderate!i shouldn't have expected that you would bring up all these remembrances of mytroubles to me,--it's so inconsiderate! but nobody ever does consider,--my trialsare so peculiar! it's so hard, that when i had only onedaughter, she should have been taken!--and when i had a husband that just exactlysuited me,--and i'm so hard to be suited!-- he should be taken!

and you seem to have so little feeling forme, and keep bringing it up to me so carelessly,--when you know how it overcomesme! i suppose you mean well; but it is veryinconsiderate,--very!" and marie sobbed, and gasped for breath,and called mammy to open the window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to batheher head, and unhook her dress. and, in the general confusion that ensued,miss ophelia made her escape to her she saw, at once, that it would do no goodto say anything more; for marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and,after this, whenever her husband's or eva's wishes with regard to the servants were

alluded to, she always found it convenientto set one in operation. miss ophelia, therefore, did the next bestthing she could for tom,--she wrote a letter to mrs. shelby for him, stating histroubles, and urging them to send to his relief. the next day, tom and adolph, and some halfa dozen other servants, were marched down to a slave-warehouse, to await theconvenience of the trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.

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