"And now, Marie," said St. Clare, "your golden days are dawning. Here isour practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take thewhole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refreshyourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering thekeys had better come off forthwith."

This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings after MissOphelia had arrived.

"I'm sure she's welcome," said Marie, leaning her head languidly on herhand. "I think she'll find one thing, if she does, and that is, thatit's we mistresses that are the slaves, down here."

"O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truthsbesides, no doubt," said St. Clare.

"Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our _convenience_,"said Marie. "I'm sure, if we consulted _that_, we might let them all goat once."

Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's face, with anearnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply, "What do you keepthem for, mamma?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of mylife. I believe that more of my ill health is caused by them than by anyone thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody wasplagued with."

"O, come, Marie, you've got the blues, this morning," said St. Clare."You know 't isn't so. There's Mammy, the best creature living,--whatcould you do without her?"

"Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie; "and yet Mammy, now, isselfish--dreadfully selfish; it's the fault of the whole race."

"Selfishness _is_ a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely.

"Well, now, there's Mammy," said Marie, "I think it's selfish of her tosleep so sound nights; she knows I need little attentions almost everyhour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she's so hard to wake. Iabsolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make towake her last night."

"Hasn't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately, mamma?" saidEva.

"How should you know that?" said Marie, sharply; "she's beencomplaining, I suppose."

"She didn't complain; she only told me what bad nights you'd had,--somany in succession."

"Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night or two," saidSt. Clare, "and let her rest?"

"How can you propose it?" said Marie. "St. Clare, you really areinconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and astrange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy feltthe interest in me she ought to, she'd wake easier,--of course, shewould. I've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it neverwas _my_ luck;" and Marie sighed.

Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd,observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, asif determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before shecommitted herself.

"Now, Mammy has a _sort_ of goodness," said Marie; "she's smooth andrespectful, but she's selfish at heart. Now, she never will be donefidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I wasmarried and came to live here, of course, I had to bring her with me,and her husband my father couldn't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, ofcourse, very necessary; and I thought and said, at the time, thatMammy and he had better give each other up, as it wasn't likely tobe convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish, now, I'dinsisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolishand indulgent, and didn't want to insist. I told Mammy, at the time,that she mustn't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in herlife again, for the air of father's place doesn't agree with my health,and I can't go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else;but no--she wouldn't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,that everybody don't see as I do."

"Has she children?" said Miss Ophelia.

"Yes; she has two."

"I suppose she feels the separation from them?"

"Well, of course, I couldn't bring them. They were little dirtythings--I couldn't have them about; and, besides, they took up toomuch of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort ofsulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else; and I do believe,now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble myhealth is, she would go back to her husband tomorrow, if she only could.I _do_, indeed," said Marie; "they are just so selfish, now, the best ofthem."

"It's distressing to reflect upon," said St. Clare, dryly.

Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortificationand repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.

"Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me," said Marie. "I wish some ofyour northern servants could look at her closets of dresses,--silks andmuslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I've workedsometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her readyto go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She never waswhipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She has her strongcoffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, tobe sure; but St. Clare will have high life below-stairs, and they everyone of them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants areover-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish,and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare till I amtired."

"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.

Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with thatexpression of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her. Shewalked softly round to her mother's chair, and put her arms round herneck.

"Well, Eva, what now?" said Marie.

"Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night--just one? I know Ishouldn't make you nervous, and I shouldn't sleep. I often lie awakenights, thinking--"

"O, nonsense, child--nonsense!" said Marie; "you are such a strangechild!"

"But may I, mamma? I think," she said, timidly, "that Mammy isn't well.She told me her head ached all the time, lately."

"O, that's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the restof them--makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache;it'll never do to encourage it--never! I'm principled about thismatter," said she, turning to Miss Ophelia; "you'll find the necessityof it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every littledisagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you'llhave your hands full. I never complain myself--nobody knows what Iendure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do."

Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at thisperoration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous, that heburst into a loud laugh.

"St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my illhealth," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. "I onlyhope the day won't come when he'll remember it!" and Marie put herhandkerchief to her eyes.

Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare gotup, looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street. Evatripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the tablealone.

"Now, that's just like St. Clare!" said the latter, withdrawing herhandkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish when the criminal tobe affected by it was no longer in sight. "He never realizes, nevercan, never will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of thecomplaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there wouldbe some reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complainingwife. But I've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St.Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything."

Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answer tothis.

While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away hertears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dovemight be supposed to make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifelychat with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses,store-rooms, and other matters, of which the latter was, by commonunderstanding, to assume the direction,--giving her so many cautiousdirections and charges, that a head less systematic and business-likethan Miss Ophelia's would have been utterly dizzied and confounded.

"And now," said Marie, "I believe I've told you everything; so that,when my next sick turn comes on, you'll be able to go forward entirely,without consulting me;--only about Eva,--she requires watching."

"She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia; "I never saw abetter child."

"Eva's peculiar," said her mother, "very. There are things about her sosingular; she isn't like me, now, a particle;" and Marie sighed, as ifthis was a truly melancholy consideration.

Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, "I hope she isn't," but had prudenceenough to keep it down.

"Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I think that wellenough with some children. Now, I always played with father's littlenegroes--it never did me any harm. But Eva somehow always seems to putherself on an equality with every creature that comes near her. It's astrange thing about the child. I never have been able to break her ofit. St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. Clareindulges every creature under this roof but his own wife."

Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.

"Now, there's no way with servants," said Marie, "but to _put themdown_, and keep them down. It was always natural to me, from a child.Eva is enough to spoil a whole house-full. What she will do when shecomes to keep house herself, I'm sure I don't know. I hold to being_kind_ to servants--I always am; but you must make 'em _know theirplace_. Eva never does; there's no getting into the child's head thefirst beginning of an idea what a servant's place is! You heard heroffering to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep! That's just aspecimen of the way the child would be doing all the time, if she wasleft to herself."

"Why," said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, "I suppose you think your servantsare human creatures, and ought to have some rest when they are tired."

"Certainly, of course. I'm very particular in letting them haveeverything that comes convenient,--anything that doesn't put one atall out of the way, you know. Mammy can make up her sleep, some timeor other; there's no difficulty about that. She's the sleepiest concernthat ever I saw; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will go tosleep, and sleep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleepenough. But this treating servants as if they were exotic flowers, orchina vases, is really ridiculous," said Marie, as she plunged languidlyinto the depths of a voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards heran elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.

"You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the lastdying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal,"you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speak of myself. It isn't my_habit_; 't isn't agreeable to me. In fact, I haven't strength to doit. But there are points where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare neverunderstood me, never appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of allmy ill health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe; but men areconstitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to woman. That, at least, ismy impression."

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New Englandcaution, and a very particular horror of being drawn into familydifficulties, now began to foresee something of this kind impending; so,composing her face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out of her pocketabout a yard and a quarter of stocking, which she kept as a specificagainst what Dr. Watts asserts to be a personal habit of Satan whenpeople have idle hands, she proceeded to knit most energetically,shutting her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words could,"You needn't try to make me speak. I don't want anything to do with youraffairs,"--in fact, she looked about as sympathizing as a stone lion.But Marie didn't care for that. She had got somebody to talk to, and shefelt it her duty to talk, and that was enough; and reinforcing herselfby smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.

"You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection,when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them myown way. St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I'm wellenough content he should manage them his way; but St. Clare will beinterfering. He has wild, extravagant notions about things, particularlyabout the treatment of servants. He really does act as if he set hisservants before me, and before himself, too; for he lets them make himall sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger. Now, about some things,St. Clare is really frightful--he frightens me--good-natured as helooks, in general. Now, he has set down his foot that, come what will,there shall not be a blow struck in this house, except what he or Istrike; and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him. Well,you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare wouldn't raise his hand,if every one of them walked over him, and I--you see how cruel it wouldbe to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know these servants arenothing but grown-up children."

"I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don't!"said Miss Ophelia, shortly.

"Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost,if you stay here. You don't know what a provoking, stupid, careless,unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are."

Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon thistopic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget herlanguor.

"You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials that beseta housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it's no use tocomplain to St. Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we havemade them what they are, and ought to bear with them. He says theirfaults are all owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the faultand punish it too. He says we shouldn't do any better, in their place;just as if one could reason from them to us, you know."

"Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with us?" saidMiss Ophelia, shortly.

"No, indeed not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race."

"Don't you think they've got immortal souls?" said Miss Ophelia, withincreasing indignation.

"O, well," said Marie, yawning, "that, of course--nobody doubts that.But as to putting them on any sort of equality with us, you know, as ifwe could be compared, why, it's impossible! Now, St. Clare really hastalked to me as if keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping mefrom mine. There's no comparing in this way. Mammy couldn't have thefeelings that I should. It's a different thing altogether,--of course,it is,--and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammycould love her little dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare oncereally and soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with myweak health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebodyelse in her place. That was a little too much even for _me_ to bear. Idon't often show my feelings, I make it a principle to endure everythingin silence; it's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out,that time; so that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I knowby his looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks so as muchas ever; and it's so trying, so provoking!"

Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should saysomething; but she rattled away with her needles in a way that hadvolumes of meaning in it, if Marie could only have understood it.

"So, you just see," she continued, "what you've got to manage. Ahousehold without any rule; where servants have it all their own way, dowhat they please, and have what they please, except so far as I, withmy feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, andsometimes I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much for me. IfSt. Clare would only have this thing done as others do--"

"And how's that?"

"Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places to beflogged. That's the only way. If I wasn't such a poor, feeble piece, Ibelieve I should manage with twice the energy that St. Clare does."

"And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?" said Miss Ophelia. "You sayhe never strikes a blow."

"Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier forthem; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, it's peculiar,--thateye,--and if he speaks decidedly, there's a kind of flash. I'm afraid ofit, myself; and the servants know they must mind. I couldn't do as muchby a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his eye,if once he is in earnest. O, there's no trouble about St. Clare; that'sthe reason he's no more feeling for me. But you'll find, when you cometo manage, that there's no getting along without severity,--they are sobad, so deceitful, so lazy."

"The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. "What an awful accountthese wicked creatures will have to settle, at last, especially forbeing lazy! You see, cousin," said he, as he stretched himself at fulllength on a lounge opposite to Marie, "it's wholly inexcusable in them,in the light of the example that Marie and I set them,--this laziness."

"Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!" said Marie.

"Am I, now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably for me.I try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always."

"You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie.

"O, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for setting meright."

"You do really try to be provoking," said Marie.

"O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just had a longquarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively; so, pray beagreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in the light of your smile."

"What's the matter about Dolph?" said Marie. "That fellow's impudencehas been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerable to me. Ionly wish I had the undisputed management of him a while. I'd bring himdown!"

"What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and goodsense," said St. Clare. "As to Dolph, the case is this: that he has solong been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he has,at last, really mistaken himself for his master; and I have been obligedto give him a little insight into his mistake."

"How?" said Marie.

"Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred tokeep _some_ of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put hismagnificence upon an allowance of cologne-water, and actually was socruel as to restrict him to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolphwas particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father,to bring him round."

"O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It'sabominable, the way you indulge them!" said Marie.

"Why, after all, what's the harm of the poor dog's wanting to be likehis master; and if I haven't brought him up any better than to find hischief good in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs, why shouldn't I givethem to him?"

"And why haven't you brought him up better?" said Miss Ophelia, withblunt determination.

"Too much trouble,--laziness, cousin, laziness,--which ruins more soulsthan you can shake a stick at. If it weren't for laziness, I should havebeen a perfect angel, myself. I'm inclined to think that laziness iswhat your old Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the 'essence ofmoral evil.' It's an awful consideration, certainly."

"I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon you," saidMiss Ophelia. "I wouldn't have it, for a thousand worlds. You ought toeducate your slaves, and treat them like reasonable creatures,--likeimmortal creatures, that you've got to stand before the bar of God with.That's my mind," said the good lady, breaking suddenly out with a tideof zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind all the morning.

"O! come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly; "what do you knowabout us?" And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively piece ofmusic. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch was brilliantand firm, and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and bird-likemotion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a manwho is trying to play himself into a good humor. After pushing the musicaside, he rose up, and said, gayly, "Well, now, cousin, you've given usa good talk and done your duty; on the whole, I think the better of youfor it. I make no manner of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truthat me, though you see it hit me so directly in the face that it wasn'texactly appreciated, at first."

"For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said Marie."I'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do, I'd like toknow who; and it don't do 'em a bit good,--not a particle,--they getworse and worse. As to talking to them, or anything like that, I'm sureI have talked till I was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, andall that; and I'm sure they can go to church when they like, though theydon't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many pigs,--so itisn't of any great use for them to go, as I see; but they do go, and sothey have every chance; but, as I said before, they are a degraded race,and always will be, and there isn't any help for them; you can't makeanything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I've tried, andyou haven't; I was born and bred among them, and I know."

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent. St.Clare whistled a tune.

"St. Clare, I wish you wouldn't whistle," said Marie; "it makes my headworse."

"I won't," said St. Clare. "Is there anything else you wouldn't wish meto do?"

"I wish you _would_ have some kind of sympathy for my trials; you neverhave any feeling for me."

"My dear accusing angel!" said St. Clare.

"It's provoking to be talked to in that way."

"Then, how will you be talked to? I'll talk to order,--any way you'llmention,--only to give satisfaction."

A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of theverandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain, laughedtoo.

"What is it?" said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.

There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of hisbutton-holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gayly laughing, washanging a wreath of roses round his neck; and then she sat down on hisknee, like a chip-sparrow, still laughing.

"O, Tom, you look so funny!"

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to beenjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted hiseyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.

"How can you let her?" said Miss Ophelia.

"Why not?" said St. Clare.

"Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!"

"You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even if hewas black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and isimmortal, you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling amongsome of you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle ofvirtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what Christianityought to do,--obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I haveoften noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was with youthan with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet youare indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused; but youdon't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would sendthem to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionaryor two to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compendiously.Isn't that it?"

"Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, "there may be sometruth in this."

"What would the poor and lowly do, without children?" said St. Clare,leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she tripped off, leadingTom with her. "Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, nowis a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs andMethodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little bitsof trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tomthat ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that theLord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get fewenough of any other kind."

"It's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, "one might almost think youwere a _professor_, to hear you talk."

"A professor?" said St. Clare.

"Yes; a professor of religion."

"Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it; and, what isworse, I'm afraid, not a _practiser_, either."

"What makes you talk so, then?"

"Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. "I believe Shakespearemakes somebody say, 'I could sooner show twenty what were good to bedone, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing.'* Nothing likedivision of labor. My forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies indoing."

* _The Merchant of Venice_, Act 1, scene 2, lines 17-18.

In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the worldsays, nothing to complain of Little Eva's fancy for him--the instinctivegratitude and loveliness of a noble nature--had led her to petition herfather that he might be her especial attendant, whenever she needed theescort of a servant, in her walks or rides; and Tom had general ordersto let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she wantedhim,--orders which our readers may fancy were far from disagreeable tohim. He was kept well dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously particularon this point. His stable services were merely a sinecure, and consistedsimply in a daily care and inspection, and directing an under-servantin his duties; for Marie St. Clare declared that she could not have anysmell of the horses about him when he came near her, and that he mustpositively not be put to any service that would make him unpleasant toher, as her nervous system was entirely inadequate to any trial ofthat nature; one snuff of anything disagreeable being, according to heraccount, quite sufficient to close the scene, and put an end to all herearthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his well-brushed broadclothsuit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless wristbands and collar, withhis grave, good-natured black face, looked respectable enough to be aBishop of Carthage, as men of his color were, in other ages.

Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which hissensitive race was never indifferent; and he did enjoy with a quiet joythe birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light andbeauty of the court, the silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres,and statuettes, and gilding, that made the parlors within a kind ofAladdin's palace to him.

If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race,--and comeit must, some time, her turn to figure in the great drama of humanimprovement.--life will awake there with a gorgeousness and splendor ofwhich our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-offmystic land of gold, and gems, and spices, and waving palms, andwondrous flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms ofart, new styles of splendor; and the negro race, no longer despisedand trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth some of the latest and mostmagnificent revelations of human life. Certainly they will, in theirgentleness, their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude to repose on asuperior mind and rest on a higher power, their childlike simplicity ofaffection, and facility of forgiveness. In all these they will exhibitthe highest form of the peculiarly _Christian life_, and, perhaps, asGod chasteneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnaceof affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdom whichhe will set up, when every other kingdom has been tried, and failed; forthe first shall be last, and the last first.

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeouslydressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning, clasping a diamond braceleton her slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn't that, it wassomething else; for Marie patronized good things, and she was going now,in full force,--diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all,--to afashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point tobe very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, soairy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping herlike a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good andvery elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast.It was not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, andas fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness and squareness, andbolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciablea presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not the grace of God,however,--that is quite another thing!

"Where's Eva?" said Marie.

"The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy."

And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader, and youwill hear, though Marie does not.

"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully."

"Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately. You don't needto worry."

"Well, I'm glad you're going out; and here,"--and the little girl threwher arms around her,--"Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette."

"What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss,'t wouldn't be proper, no ways."

"Why not? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always uses it for headache,and it'll make you feel better. No, you shall take it, to please me,now."

"Do hear the darlin talk!" said Mammy, as Eva thrust it into her bosom,and kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.

"What were you stopping for?"

"I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to churchwith her."

"Eva" said Marie, stamping impatiently,--"your gold vinaigrette to_Mammy!_ When will you learn what's _proper_? Go right and take it backthis moment!"

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.

"I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she pleases," saidSt. Clare.

"St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?" said Marie.

"The Lord knows," said St. Clare, "but she'll get along in heaven betterthan you or I."

"O, papa, don't," said Eva, softly touching his elbow; "it troublesmother."

"Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?" said Miss Ophelia,turning square about on St. Clare.

"I'm not going, thank you."

"I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie; "but hehasn't a particle of religion about him. It really isn't respectable."

"I know it," said St. Clare. "You ladies go to church to learn how toget along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectabilityon us. If I did go at all, I would go where Mammy goes; there'ssomething to keep a fellow awake there, at least."

"What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!" said Marie.

"Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie.Positively, it's too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come,stay at home and play with me."

"Thank you, papa; but I'd rather go to church."

"Isn't it dreadful tiresome?" said St. Clare.

"I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva, "and I am sleepy, too, but Itry to keep awake."

"What do you go for, then?"

"Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, "cousin told me that Godwants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know; and it isn'tmuch to do it, if he wants us to. It isn't so very tiresome after all."

"You sweet, little obliging soul!" said St. Clare, kissing her; "goalong, that's a good girl, and pray for me."

"Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprang after her motherinto the carriage.

St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as the carriagedrove away; large tears were in his eyes.

"O, Evangeline! rightly named," he said; "hath not God made thee anevangel to me?"

So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read the Picayune,and forgot his little gospel. Was he much unlike other folks?

"You see, Evangeline," said her mother, "it's always right and properto be kind to servants, but it isn't proper to treat them _just_ as wewould our relations, or people in our own class of life. Now, if Mammywas sick, you wouldn't want to put her in your own bed."

"I should feel just like it, mamma," said Eva, "because then it wouldbe handier to take care of her, and because, you know, my bed is betterthan hers."

Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral perceptionevinced in this reply.

"What can I do to make this child understand me?" she said.

"Nothing," said Miss Ophelia, significantly.

Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but children, luckily,do not keep to one impression long, and in a few moments she was merrilylaughing at various things which she saw from the coach-windows, as itrattled along.

*****

"Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at thedinner-table, "and what was the bill of fare at church today?"

"O, Dr. G---- preached a splendid sermon," said Marie. "It was just sucha sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed all my views exactly."

"It must have been very improving," said St. Clare. "The subject musthave been an extensive one."

"Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things," said Marie."The text was, 'He hath made everything beautiful in its season;' and heshowed how all the orders and distinctions in society came from God; andthat it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful, that some shouldbe high and some low, and that some were born to rule and some to serve,and all that, you know; and he applied it so well to all this ridiculousfuss that is made about slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Biblewas on our side, and supported all our institutions so convincingly. Ionly wish you'd heard him."

"O, I didn't need it," said St. Clare. "I can learn what does me as muchgood as that from the Picayune, any time, and smoke a cigar besides;which I can't do, you know, in a church."

"Why," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you believe in these views?"

"Who,--I? You know I'm such a graceless dog that these religious aspectsof such subjects don't edify me much. If I was to say anything on thisslavery matter, I would say out, fair and square, 'We're in for it;we've got 'em, and mean to keep 'em,--it's for our convenience and ourinterest;' for that's the long and short of it,--that's just the wholeof what all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all; and I thinkthat it will be intelligible to everybody, everywhere."

"I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!" said Marie. "I thinkit's shocking to hear you talk."

"Shocking! it's the truth. This religious talk on such matters,--whydon't they carry it a little further, and show the beauty, in itsseason, of a fellow's taking a glass too much, and sitting a little toolate over his cards, and various providential arrangements of that sort,which are pretty frequent among us young men;--we'd like to hear thatthose are right and godly, too."

"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "do you think slavery right or wrong?"

"I'm not going to have any of your horrid New England directness,cousin," said St. Clare, gayly. "If I answer that question, I knowyou'll be at me with half a dozen others, each one harder than the last;and I'm not a going to define my position. I am one of the sort thatlives by throwing stones at other people's glass houses, but I nevermean to put up one for them to stone."

"That's just the way he's always talking," said Marie; "you can't getany satisfaction out of him. I believe it's just because he don't likereligion, that he's always running out in this way he's been doing."

"Religion!" said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look at him."Religion! Is what you hear at church, religion? Is that which can bendand turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of selfish,worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous,less generous, less just, less considerate for man, than even my ownungodly, worldly, blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, I mustlook for something above me, and not something beneath."

"Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery," said MissOphelia.

"The Bible was my _mother's_ book," said St. Clare. "By it she lived anddied, and I would be very sorry to think it did. I'd as soon desireto have it proved that my mother could drink brandy, chew tobacco, andswear, by way of satisfying me that I did right in doing the same. Itwouldn't make me at all more satisfied with these things in myself, andit would take from me the comfort of respecting her; and it really is acomfort, in this world, to have anything one can respect. In short,you see," said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, "all I want is thatdifferent things be kept in different boxes. The whole frame-work ofsociety, both in Europe and America, is made up of various things whichwill not stand the scrutiny of any very ideal standard of morality. It'spretty generally understood that men don't aspire after the absoluteright, but only to do about as well as the rest of the world. Now, whenany one speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, wecan't get along without it, we should be beggared if we give it up,and, of course, we mean to hold on to it,--this is strong, clear,well-defined language; it has the respectability of truth to it; and, ifwe may judge by their practice, the majority of the world will bear usout in it. But when he begins to put on a long face, and snuffle, andquote Scripture, I incline to think he isn't much better than he shouldbe."

"You are very uncharitable," said Marie.

"Well," said St. Clare, "suppose that something should bring down theprice of cotton once and forever, and make the whole slave property adrug in the market, don't you think we should soon have another versionof the Scripture doctrine? What a flood of light would pour into thechurch, all at once, and how immediately it would be discovered thateverything in the Bible and reason went the other way!"

"Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herself on a lounge,"I'm thankful I'm born where slavery exists; and I believe it'sright,--indeed, I feel it must be; and, at any rate, I'm sure I couldn'tget along without it."

"I say, what do you think, Pussy?" said her father to Eva, who came inat this moment, with a flower in her hand.

"What about, papa?"

"Why, which do you like the best,--to live as they do at your uncle's,up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do?"

"O, of course, our way is the pleasantest," said Eva.

"Why so?" said St. Clare, stroking her head.

"Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know," said Eva,looking up earnestly.

"Now, that's just like Eva," said Marie; "just one of her odd speeches."

"Is it an odd speech, papa?" said Eva, whisperingly, as she got upon hisknee.

"Rather, as this world goes, Pussy," said St. Clare. "But where has mylittle Eva been, all dinner-time?"

"O, I've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and Aunt Dinah gave memy dinner."

"Hearing Tom sing, hey?"

"O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem, andbright angels, and the land of Canaan."

"I dare say; it's better than the opera, isn't it?"

"Yes, and he's going to teach them to me."

"Singing lessons, hey?--you _are_ coming on."

"Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; and he explainswhat it means, you know."

"On my word," said Marie, laughing, "that is the latest joke of theseason."

"Tom isn't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I'll dare swear,"said St. Clare. "Tom has a natural genius for religion. I wanted thehorses out early, this morning, and I stole up to Tom's cubiculum there,over the stables, and there I heard him holding a meeting by himself;and, in fact, I haven't heard anything quite so savory as Tom's prayer,this some time. He put in for me, with a zeal that was quite apostolic."

"Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I've heard of that trickbefore."

"If he did, he wasn't very polite; for he gave the Lord his opinionof me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room forimprovement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be converted."

"I hope you'll lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia.

"I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare. "Well, weshall see,--shan't we, Eva?"