Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted; and Eva, whohad been stimulated, by the society of her young cousin, to exertionsbeyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at lastwilling to call in medical advice,--a thing from which he had alwaysshrunk, because it was the admission of an unwelcome truth.

But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confined to the house;and the doctor was called.

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually decayinghealth and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying outtwo or three new forms of disease to which she believed she herself wasa victim. It was the first principle of Marie's belief that nobody everwas or could be so great a sufferer as _herself_; and, therefore, shealways repelled quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around hercould be sick. She was always sure, in such a case, that it was nothingbut laziness, or want of energy; and that, if they had had the suffering_she_ had, they would soon know the difference.

Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal fears aboutEva; but to no avail.

"I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say; "she runsabout, and plays."

"But she has a cough."

"Cough! you don't need to tell _me_ about a cough. I've always beensubject to a cough, all my days. When I was of Eva's age, they thoughtI was in a consumption. Night after night, Mammy used to sit up with 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 a nervous affection."

"But she sweats so, nights!"

"Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after night, myclothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry thread in mynight-clothes and the sheets will be so that Mammy has to hang them upto dry! Eva doesn't sweat anything like that!"

Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now that Eva was fairlyand visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie, all on a sudden,took a new turn.

"She knew it," she said; "she always felt it, that she was destinedto be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, with her wretchedhealth, and her only darling child going down to the grave before hereyes;"--and Marie routed up Mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded,with more energy than ever, all day, on the strength of this new misery.

"My dear Marie, don't talk so!" said St. Clare. "You ought not to give upthe case so, at once."

"You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare! You never could understandme!--you don't now."

"But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case!"

"I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If _you_ don'tfeel when your only child is in this alarming state, I do. It's a blowtoo much for me, with all I was bearing before."

"It's true," said St. Clare, "that Eva is very delicate, _that_ I alwaysknew; and that she has grown so rapidly as to exhaust her strength; andthat her situation is critical. But just now she is only prostrated bythe heat of the weather, and by the excitement of her cousin's visit,and the exertions she made. The physician says there is room for hope."

"Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do; it's amercy if people haven't sensitive feelings, in this world. I am sure Iwish I didn't feel as I do; it only makes me completely wretched! I wishI _could_ be as easy as the rest of you!"

And the "rest of them" had good reason to breathe the same prayer, forMarie paraded her new misery as the reason and apology for all sortsof inflictions on every one about her. Every word that was spoken byanybody, everything that was done or was not done everywhere, was onlya new proof that she was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings,who were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard some of thesespeeches; and nearly cried her little eyes out, in pity for her mamma,and in sorrow that she should make her so much distress.

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symptoms,--one ofthose deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable disease so often beguilesthe anxious heart, even on the verge of the grave. Eva's step was againin the garden,--in the balconies; she played and laughed again,--andher father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have heras hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt noencouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too,that felt the same certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. Whatis it that sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that itsearthly time is short? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, orthe soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? Be it what it may,it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certaintythat Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the brightstillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled bysorrow for those who loved her so dearly.

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfoldingbefore her with every brightness that love and wealth could give, had noregret for herself in dying.

In that book which she and her simple old friend had read so muchtogether, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one wholoved the little child; and, as she gazed and mused, He had ceased tobe an image and a picture of the distant past, and come to be a living,all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with morethan mortal tenderness; and it was to Him, she said, she was going, andto his home.

But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she was to leavebehind. Her father most,--for Eva, though she never distinctly thoughtso, had an instinctive perception that she was more in his heart thanany other. She loved her mother because she was so loving 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 mothercould not do wrong. There was something about her that Eva never couldmake out; and she always smoothed it over with thinking that, after all,it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly indeed.

She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was asdaylight and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize; but Eva wasan uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of theevils of the system under which they were living had fallen, one byone, into the depths of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vaguelongings to do something for them,--to bless and save not only them,but all in their condition,--longings that contrasted sadly with thefeebleness of her little frame.

"Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading to her friend, "Ican 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 those poor creatures on the boat,you know, when you came up and I,--some had lost their mothers, and sometheir husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children--andwhen I heard about poor Prue,--oh, wasn't that dreadful!--and a greatmany other times, I've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dyingcould 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 when she, hearing her father'svoice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, as he looked afterher.

"It's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to Mammy, whomhe met a moment after. "She's got the Lord's mark in her forehead."

"Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands; "I've allers said so.She wasn't never like a child that's to live--there was allers somethingdeep in her eyes. I've told Missis so, many the time; it's a comin'true,--we all sees it,--dear, little, blessed lamb!"

Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It was late inthe afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a kind of glory behindher, as she came forward in her white dress, with her golden hair andglowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever thatburned in her veins.

St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been buyingfor her; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly andpainfully. There is a kind of beauty so intense, yet so fragile, that wecannot 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 sayto you, a great while. I want to say them now, before I get weaker."

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid her headon his bosom, and said,

"It's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time iscoming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and never to comeback!" and Eva sobbed.

"O, now, my dear little Eva!" said St. Clare, trembling as he spoke, butspeaking cheerfully, "you've got nervous and low-spirited; you mustn'tindulge such gloomy thoughts. See here, I've bought a statuette foryou!"

"No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, "don't deceiveyourself!--I am _not_ any better, I know it perfectly well,--and I amgoing, before long. I am not nervous,--I am not low-spirited. If it werenot for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly happy. I wantto go,--I long to go!"

"Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad? You havehad everything, to make you happy, that could be given you."

"I had rather be in heaven; though, only for my friends' sake, I wouldbe willing to live. There are a great many things here that make 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 the time. I feel sad for our poorpeople; they love me dearly, and they are all good and kind to me. Iwish, papa, they were all _free_."

"Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off now?"

"O, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would become ofthem? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle Alfred isn't likeyou, and mamma isn't; and then, think of poor old Prue's owners! Whathorrid things people do, and can do!" and Eva shuddered.

"My dear child, you are too sensitive. I'm sorry I ever let you hearsuch stories."

"O, that's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live so happy, andnever to have any pain,--never suffer anything,--not even hear a sadstory, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow, alltheir lives;--it seems selfish. I ought to know such things, I ought tofeel about them! Such things always sunk into my heart; they went downdeep; I've thought and thought about them. Papa, isn't there any way tohave all slaves made free?"

"That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt that this wayis a very bad one; a great many people think so; I do myself I heartilywish that there were not a slave in the land; but, then, I don't knowwhat is to be done about it!"

"Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, and you alwayshave a way of saying things that is so pleasant, couldn't you go allround and try to persuade people to do right about this? When I am dead,papa, then you will think of 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'ttalk to me so! You are all I have on earth."

"Poor old Prue's child was all that she had,--and yet she had to hear itcrying, 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 poorMammy loves her children; I've seen her cry when she talked about them.And Tom loves his children; and it's dreadful, papa, that such thingsare happening, all the time!"

"There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly; "only don'tdistress yourself, don't talk of dying, and I will do anything youwish."

"And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as soonas"--she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone--"I am gone!"

"Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world,--anything you could ask meto."

"Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against his, "howI 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 soloving there!" The child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where shehad 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 calmcertainty which she often used unconsciously.

"I shall come after you. I shall not forget you."

The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper and deeper,as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail form to his bosom.He saw no more the deep eyes, but the voice came over him as a spiritvoice, and, as in a sort of judgment vision, his whole past life rose ina moment before his eyes: his mother's prayers and hymns; his own earlyyearnings and aspirings for good; and, between them and this hour, yearsof worldliness and scepticism, and what man calls respectable living.We can think _much_, very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw and felt manythings, but spoke nothing; and, as it grew darker, he took his childto her bed-room; and, when she was prepared for rest; he sent away theattendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till she wasasleep.