Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes.*

* "Weep Not for Those," a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).

Eva's bed-room was a spacious apartment, which, like all the otherrooms in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The roomcommunicated, on one side, with her father and mother's apartment;on the other, with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare hadgratified his own eye and taste, in furnishing this room in a stylethat had a peculiar keeping with the character of her for whom it wasintended. The windows were hung with curtains of rose-colored and whitemuslin, the floor was spread with a matting which had been orderedin Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border ofrose-buds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-flown roses. Thebedstead, chairs, and lounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarlygraceful and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was analabaster bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel stood,with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves. From thisdepended, over the bed, light curtains of rose-colored gauze, stripedwith silver, supplying that protection from mosquitos which is anindispensable addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate.The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions ofrose-colored damask, while over them, depending from the hands ofsculptured figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. Alight, fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where aParian vase, wrought in the shape of a white lily, with its buds, stood,ever filled with flowers. On this table lay Eva's books and littletrinkets, with an elegantly wrought alabaster writing-stand, which herfather had supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herselfin writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the marble mantleabove stood a beautifully wrought statuette of Jesus receiving littlechildren, and on either side marble vases, for which it was Tom's prideand delight to offer bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisitepaintings of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. Inshort, the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood,of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the morninglight, without falling on something which suggested to the heartsoothing and beautiful thoughts.

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little while wasfast passing away; seldom and more seldom her light footstep was heardin the verandah, and oftener and oftener she was found reclined on alittle lounge by the open window, her large, deep eyes fixed on therising and falling waters of the lake.

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was soreclining,--her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers lyinglistlessly between the leaves,--suddenly she heard her mother's voice,in sharp tones, in the verandah.

"What now, you baggage!--what new piece of mischief! You've been pickingthe flowers, hey?" and Eva heard the sound of a smart slap.

"Law, Missis! they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice say, which sheknew belonged to Topsy.

"Miss Eva! A pretty excuse!--you suppose she wants _your_ flowers, yougood-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 wantthem!"

"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 down her head, now came upand offered her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitation andbashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightness which wasusual with her.

"It's a beautiful bouquet!" said Eva, looking at it.

It was rather a singular one,--a brilliant scarlet geranium, and onesingle white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was tied up with anevident eye to the contrast of color, and the arrangement of every leafhad carefully been studied.

Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said,--"Topsy, you arrange flowers veryprettily. Here," she said, "is this vase I haven't any flowers for. Iwish you'd arrange something every day for it."

"Well, that's odd!" said Marie. "What in the world do you want thatfor?"

"Never mind, mamma; you'd as lief as not Topsy should do it,--had younot?"

"Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear your youngmistress;--see that you mind."

Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down; and, as she turned away,Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.

"You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do something for me," saidEva to her mother.

"O, nonsense! it's only because she likes to do mischief. She knows shemustn't pick flowers,--so she does 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 from what she used to be; she'strying to be a good girl."

"She'll have to try a good while before _she_ gets to be good," saidMarie, with a careless laugh.

"Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has always been againsther."

"Not since she's been here, I'm sure. If she hasn't been talked to, andpreached to, and every earthly thing done that anybody could do;--andshe's just so ugly, and always will be; you can't make anything of thecreature!"

"But, mamma, it's so different to be brought up as I've been, withso many friends, so many things to make me good and happy; and to bebrought up as she's been, all the time, till she came here!"

"Most likely," said Marie, yawning,--"dear me, how hot it is!"

"Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become an angel, aswell as any of us, if she were a Christian?"

"Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would ever think of it. Isuppose she could, though."

"But, mamma, isn't God her father, as much as ours? Isn't Jesus herSaviour?"

"Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," said Marie. "Where ismy smelling-bottle?"

"It's such a pity,--oh! _such_ a pity!" said Eva, looking out on thedistant lake, and speaking half to herself.

"What's a pity?" said Marie.

"Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels,should go all down, down down, and nobody help them!--oh dear!"

"Well, we can't help it; it's no use worrying, Eva! I don't know what'sto be done; we ought to be thankful for our own advantages."

"I hardly can be," said Eva, "I'm so sorry to think of poor folks thathaven't any."

"That's odd enough," said Marie;--"I'm sure my religion makes methankful for my advantages."

"Mamma," said Eva, "I want to have some of my hair cut off,--a good dealof it."

"What for?" said Marie.

"Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I am able to giveit to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to come and cut it for me?"

Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the other room.

The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, shaking downher long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, "Come aunty, shearthe sheep!"

"What's that?" said St. Clare, who just then entered with some fruit hehad been out to get for her.

"Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair;--there's too muchof it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to give some of itaway."

Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.

"Take care,--don't spoil the looks of it!" said her father; "cutunderneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my pride."

"O, papa!" said Eva, sadly.

"Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I take you up toyour uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Henrique," said St. Clare, in agay tone.

"I shall never go there, papa;--I am going to a better country. O, dobelieve me! Don't you see, papa, that I get weaker, every day?"

"Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, Eva?" saidher father.

"Only because it is _true_, papa: and, if you will believe it now,perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do."

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long, beautifulcurls, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid,one by one, in her lap. She raised them up, looked earnestly at them,twined them around her thin fingers, and looked from time to time,anxiously at her father.

"It's just what I've been foreboding!" said Marie; "it's just what hasbeen preying on my health, from day to day, bringing me downward to thegrave, though nobody regards it. I have seen this, long. St. Clare, youwill see, after a while, that I was right."

"Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt!" said St. Clare, ina dry, bitter tone.

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her cambrichandkerchief.

Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It was thecalm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly bonds;it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated, the difference betweenthe 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 aresome things I want to say and do,--that I ought to do; and you are sounwilling to have me speak a word on this subject. But it must come;there's no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now!"

"My child, I _am_ willing!" said St. Clare, covering his eyes with onehand, 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 dry endurance.

Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole of the servantswere convened in the room.

Eva lay back on her pillows; her hair hanging loosely about her face,her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with the intense whiteness ofher complexion and the thin contour of her limbs and features, and herlarge, soul-like eyes fixed earnestly on every one.

The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The spiritual face, thelong locks of hair cut off and lying by her, her father's averted face,and Marie's sobs, struck at once upon the feelings of a sensitive andimpressible race; and, as they came in, they looked one on another,sighed, and shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of afuneral.

Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at every one.All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the women hid their faces intheir aprons.

"I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, "because I love you.I love you all; and I have something to say to you, which I want youalways to remember. . . . I am going to leave you. In a few more weeksyou will see me no more--"

Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, andlamentations, which broke from all present, and in which her slendervoice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, and then, speaking in atone that checked the sobs of all, she said,

"If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to what I say. Iwant to speak to you about your souls. . . . Many of you, I am afraid,are very careless. You are thinking only about this world. I want youto remember that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am goingthere, and you can go there. It is for you, as much as me. But, if youwant to go there, you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless lives.You must be Christians. You must remember that each one of youcan become angels, and be angels forever. . . . If you want to beChristians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to him; you must read--"

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and said,sorrowfully,

"O dear! you _can't_ read--poor souls!" and she hid her face in thepillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those she wasaddressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her.

"Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brightly throughher tears, "I have prayed for you; and I know Jesus will help you, evenif you can't read. Try all to do the best you can; pray every day; askHim to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you can; and Ithink I shall see you all in heaven."

"Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and Mammy,and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist church. Theyounger and more thoughtless ones, for the 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 always been verykind to me; and I want to give you something that, when you look at,you shall always remember me, I'm going to give all of you a curl of myhair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am gone toheaven, and that I want to see you all there."

It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, theygathered round the little creature, and took from her hands what seemedto them a last mark of her love. They fell on their knees; they sobbed,and prayed, and kissed the hem of her garment; and the elder ones pouredforth words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after themanner of their susceptible race.

As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive for theeffect of all this excitement on her little patient, signed to each oneto 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 sohappy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in heaven,--for I'm sure Ishall; and Mammy,--dear, good, kind Mammy!" she said, fondly throwingher arms round her old nurse,--"I know you'll be there, too."

"O, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how!" said thefaithful creature. "'Pears like it's just taking everything off theplace to oncet!" and Mammy gave way to a passion of grief.

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, and thoughtthey were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy was standing there.

"Where did you start up from?" she said, suddenly.

"I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. "O, Miss Eva,I've been a bad girl; but won't you give _me_ one, too?"

"Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There--every time you look atthat, think that I love you, and wanted you to be a good girl!"

"O, Miss Eva, I _is_ tryin!" said Topsy, earnestly; "but, Lor, it's sohard to be good! 'Pears like I an't used to it, no ways!"

"Jesus knows it, Topsy; he is sorry for you; he will help you."

Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed from theapartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she hid the precious curlin her bosom.

All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy lady had wipedaway many tears of her own, during the scene; but concern for theconsequence of such an excitement to her young charge was uppermost inher mind.

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his hand shadinghis eyes, in the same attitude.

When they were all gone, he sat so still.

"Papa!" said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.

He gave a sudden start and shiver; but made no answer.

"Dear papa!" said Eva.

"_I cannot_," said St. Clare, rising, "I _cannot_ have it so! TheAlmighty hath dealt _very bitterly_ with me!" and St. Clare pronouncedthese words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.

"Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with his own?" saidMiss Ophelia.

"Perhaps so; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear," said he, witha dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away.

"Papa, you break my heart!" said Eva, rising and throwing herself intohis arms; "you must not feel so!" and the child sobbed and wept witha violence which alarmed them all, and turned her father's thoughts atonce to another channel.

"There, Eva,--there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was wrong; I was wicked. Iwill feel any way, do any way,--only don't distress yourself; don't sobso. I will be resigned; I was wicked to speak as I did."

Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms; and he, bendingover her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of.

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, when shefell 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; andyou must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I only gave them to ourpoor people myself, because you know, papa, they might be forgotten whenI am gone, and because I hoped it might help them remember. . . . Youare a Christian, are you not, papa?" said Eva, doubtfully.

"Why do you ask me?"

"I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you can help 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 daysI shall _see_ him;" and the young face grew fervent, radiant with joy.

St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen before in hismother; but no chord within vibrated to it.

Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more any doubt of theevent; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room wasavowedly a sick room; and Miss Ophelia day and night performed theduties of a nurse,--and never did her friends appreciate her value morethan in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfectadroitness and practice in every art which could promote neatnessand comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident ofsickness,--with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubledhead, such exact accuracy in remembering every prescription anddirection of the doctors,--she was everything to him. They who hadshrugged their shoulders at her little peculiarities and setnesses, sounlike the careless freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that nowshe 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'sgreatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting ona pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah; and whenthe fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake,--and the child felt freshestin the morning,--he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-treesin the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to hertheir favorite old hymns.

Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, andwhen 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 are everything to me. You readto me,--you sit up nights,--and Tom has only this one thing, and hissinging; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries meso strong!"

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant in theestablishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what theycould.

Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling; but she found noopportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the state of her mindwas such, it was impossible for her to rest; and, of course, it wasagainst her principles to let any one else rest. Twenty times in anight, Mammy would be roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to findher pocket-handkerchief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to letdown a curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it wastoo dark; and, in the daytime, when she longed to have some share in thenursing of her pet, Marie seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busyanywhere and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person; sothat stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all she could obtain.

"I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, now," she wouldsay, "feeble as I am, and with the whole care and nursing of that dearchild upon me."

"Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare, "I thought our cousin relieved you ofthat."

"You talk like a man, St. Clare,--just as if a mother _could_ berelieved of the care of a child in that state; but, then, it's allalike,--no one ever knows what I feel! I can't throw things off, as youdo."

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 farewell voyageof the little spirit,--by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the smallbark borne towards the heavenly shores,--that it was impossible torealize that it was death that was approaching. The child felt nopain,--only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensiblyincreasing; and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, sohappy, that one could not resist the soothing influence of that air ofinnocence and peace which seemed to breathe around her. St. Clare founda strange calm coming over him. It was not hope,--that was impossible;it was not resignation; it was only a calm resting in the present, whichseemed so beautiful that he wished to think of no future. It was likethat hush of spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn,when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, and the last lingeringflowers by the brook; and we joy in it all the more, because we knowthat soon it will all pass away.

The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadowings washer faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she would not disturb herfather by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations whichthe soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clayforever.

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in theouter verandah, ready to rouse at every call.

"Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere andeverywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thought you was oneof 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 MissFeely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom."

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a great crymade. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That's what I'm spectin now, everynight, 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 that ar blessed child goesinto the kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look inat the glory, Miss Feely."

"Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual tonight?"

"No; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming nearer,--thar'sthem that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels,--'it'sthe trumpet sound afore the break o' day,'" said Tom, quoting from afavorite hymn.

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten andeleven, one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for thenight, when, on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretchedalong by it, in the outer verandah.

She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heart-felt mannerstruck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful, that afternoon,and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinketsand precious things, and designated the friends to whom she wouldhave them given; and her manner was more animated, and her voice morenatural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, inthe evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her former selfthan ever she had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her forthe night, he said to Miss Ophelia,--"Cousin, we may keep her with us,after all; she is certainly better;" and he had retired with a lighterheart in his bosom than he had had there for weeks.

But at midnight,--strange, mystic hour!--when the veil between the frailpresent and the eternal future grows thin,--then came the messenger!

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly. Itwas Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with herlittle charge, and who, at the turn of the night, had discerned whatexperienced nurses significantly call "a change." The outer door wasquickly opened, and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert, ina moment.

"Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment," said Miss Ophelia; and,stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door.

"Cousin," she said, "I wish you would come."

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they?He was up and in the room in an instant, and bending over Eva, who stillslept.

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still? Why was no wordspoken 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 longerthine.

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint,--onlya high and almost sublime expression,--the overshadowing presence ofspiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul.

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of thewatch seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tom returned, with the doctor.He entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest.

"When did this change take place?" said he, in a low whisper, to MissOphelia.

"About the turn of the night," was the reply.

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, hurriedly, fromthe next room.

"Augustine! Cousin!--O!--what!" she hurriedly began.

"Hush!" said St. Clare, hoarsely; _"she is dying!"_

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house wassoon roused,--lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces throngedthe verandah, and looked tearfully through the glass doors; but St.Clare heard and said nothing,--he saw only _that look_ on the face ofthe little sleeper.

"O, if she would only wake, and speak once more!" he said; and, stoopingover her, he spoke in her ear,--"Eva, darling!"

The large blue eyes unclosed--a smile passed over her face;--she triedto raise her head, and to speak.

"Do you know me, Eva?"

"Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms abouthis neck. In a moment they dropped again; and, as St. Clare raised hishead, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face,--she struggledfor breath, and threw up her little hands.

"O, God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and wringingTom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. "O, Tom, my boy, it iskilling me!"

Tom had his master's hands between his own; and, with tears streamingdown his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been usedto look.

"Pray that this may be cut short!" said St. Clare,--"this wrings myheart."

"O, bless the Lord! it's over,--it's over, dear Master!" said Tom; "lookat her."

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted,--the large cleareyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes, that spoke somuch of heaven! Earth was past,--and earthly pain; but so solemn, somysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that itchecked even 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 deathunto life!

"Farewell, beloved child! the bright, eternal doors have closed afterthee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. O, woe for them who watchedthy entrance into heaven, when they shall wake and find only the coldgray sky of daily life, and thou gone forever!"