Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves oflife settled back to their usual flow, where that little bark hadgone down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one'sfeeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realitiesmove on! Still must we eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again,--stillbargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions,--pursue, in short,a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the coldmechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it hasfled.

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously woundthemselves 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, to do this and that for Eva,--to buy, improve, alter, and arrange,or dispose something for her,--had been so long his habit, that now shewas gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done.

True, there was another life,--a life which, once believed in, stands asa solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers oftime, changing them to orders of mysterious, untold value. St. Clareknew this well; and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender,childish voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little handpointing to him the way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay onhim,--he could not arise. He had one of those natures which could betterand more clearly conceive of religious things from its own perceptionsand instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. Thegift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relationsof moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole lifeshows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, oftenspeak words 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 a more fearful treason,--a more deadly sin.

St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religiousobligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such aninstinctive view of the extent of the requirements of Christianity, thathe shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt would be the exactionsof his own conscience, if he once did resolve to assume them. For,so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not toundertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He read hislittle Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought more soberlyand practically of his relations to his servants,--enough to make himextremely dissatisfied with both his past and present course; and onething he did, soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was tocommence the legal steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was tobe perfected as soon as he could get through the necessary formalities.Meantime, he attached himself to Tom more and more, every day. In allthe wide world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so muchof Eva; and he would insist on keeping him constantly about him, and,fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeperfeelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one havewondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and devotionwith which Tom continually followed his young master.

"Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the legalformalities for his enfranchisement, "I'm going to make a free man ofyou;--so have your trunk packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck."

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised his handsto heaven, his emphatic "Bless the Lord!" rather discomposed 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 arapture, Tom," he said drily.

"No, no, Mas'r! 'tan't that,--it's bein' a _freeman!_ that's what I'mjoyin' for."

"Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've been better offthan to be free?"

"_No, indeed_, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a flash of energy. "No,indeed!"

"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work, such clothesand such living as I have given you."

"Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; Mas'r's been 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 off and leaving me, in a monthor so," he added, rather discontentedly. "Though why you shouldn't, nomortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting up, he began towalk the floor.

"Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. "I'll stay with Mas'r as longas he wants me,--so as I can be any use."

"Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, looking sadly out ofthe window. . . . "And when will _my_ trouble be over?"

"When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.

"And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?" said St. Clare,half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on Tom'sshoulder. "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, andwith 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 onwhat sort of a work it is;--let's hear."

"Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; and Mas'r St.Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,--how much he might dofor the Lord!"

"Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him," saidSt. 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," saidSt. Clare.

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of somevisitors.

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feelanything; and, as she was a woman that had a great faculty of makingeverybody unhappy when she was, her immediate attendants had stillstronger reason to regret the loss of their young mistress, whosewinning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a shield to themfrom the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy,in particular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, hadconsoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken.She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilfuland alert in her ministrations of her mistress than usual, which drewdown a constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.

Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart, it borefruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more gentle; and,though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened andquiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain. She wasmore diligent in teaching Topsy,--taught her mainly from the Bible,--didnot any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-represseddisgust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the softenedmedium that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in heronly an immortal creature, whom God had sent to be led by her to gloryand virtue. Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and deathof Eva did work a marked change in her. The callous indifference wasgone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving forgood,--a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewedagain.

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, hastilythrusting something into her bosom.

"What are you doing there, you limb? You've been stealing something,I'll be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who had been sent tocall her, seizing her, at the 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 you hiding something,--I knowyer tricks," and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand intoher bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for whatshe considered 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 alittle parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which had been givento Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scripture, arranged forevery day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she hadgiven her on that memorable day when she had taken her last farewell.

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the little bookhad been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeralweeds.

"What did you wrap _this_ round the book for?" said St. Clare, holdingup 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 apronover her head, she began to sob vehemently.

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,--the littleold stockings,--black crape,--text-book,--fair, soft curl,--and Topsy'sutter distress.

St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,

"Come, come,--don't cry; you shall have them!" and, putting themtogether, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with himinto the parlor.

"I really think you can make something of that concern," he said,pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. "Any mind thatis capable of a _real sorrow_ is capable of good. You must try and dosomething with her."

"The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. "I have great hopesof her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "onething I want to ask; whose is this child to be?--yours or mine?"

"Why, I gave her to you," said Augustine.

"But not legally;--I want her to be mine legally," said Miss Ophelia.

"Whew! cousin," said Augustine. "What will the Abolition Society think?They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if youbecome a slaveholder!"

"O, nonsense! I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her tothe free States, and give her her liberty, that all I am trying to do benot undone."

"O, cousin, what an awful 'doing evil that good may come'! I can'tencourage it."

"I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia. "There isno use in my trying to make this child a Christian child, unless I saveher from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and, if you really arewilling I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or somelegal paper."

"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will;" and he sat down, and unfolded anewspaper to read.

"But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.

"What's your hurry?"

"Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said MissOphelia. "Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink; just write a paper."

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated thepresent tense of action, generally; and, therefore, he was considerablyannoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness.

"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take my word? One wouldthink you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a fellow so!"

"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. "You may die, or fail,and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can do."

"Really, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I'm in the hands of aYankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;" and St. Clare rapidlywrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the formsof 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 hehanded 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'sapartment, "Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just put your name downhere."

"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper. "Ridiculous! Ithought Cousin was too pious for such horrid things," she added, as shecarelessly wrote her name; "but, if she has a fancy for that article, Iam sure she's welcome."

"There, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, handing thepaper.

"No more mine now than she was before," Miss Ophelia. "Nobody but Godhas a right to give her to me; but I can protect her now."

"Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare, as heturned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.

Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, followed him intothe parlor, having first carefully laid away the paper.

"Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have you evermade 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 prove a great cruelty, by and by."

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered,negligently.

"Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by."

"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 paperand looking at her. "Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever orcholera, that you are making post mortem arrangements with such zeal?"

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" said Miss Ophelia.

St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, walked to thedoor that stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversationthat was not agreeable to him. Mechanically, he repeated the last wordagain,--_"Death!"_--and, as he leaned against the railings, and watchedthe sparkling water as it rose and fell in the fountain; and, as in adim and dizzy haze, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts, herepeated, again the mystic word so common in every mouth, yet of suchfearful power,--"DEATH!" "Strange that there should be such a word,"he said, "and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should beliving, warm and 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 he walked to the other end of theverandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing, as he did so,with his finger to each successive word, and whispering them to himselfwith an earnest air.

"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seating himselfcarelessly by him.

"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, "Mas'r makes it so muchplainer."

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading oneof the passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks around it.It ran as follows:

"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his holy angelswith him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and beforehim shall be gathered all nations; and he shall separate them one fromanother, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats." St. Clareread on in an animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses.

"Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Depart from me, yecursed, into everlasting fire: for I was an hungered, and ye gave me nomeat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and yetook me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: I was sick, and in prison,and ye visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord when sawwe thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, orin prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he say unto them,Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my brethren, yedid it not to me."

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read ittwice,--the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words inhis mind.

"Tom," he said, "these folks that get such hard measure seem to havebeen doing just what I have,--living good, easy, respectable lives;and not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren werehungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison."

Tom did not answer.

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah,seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he,that Tom had to remind him twice that the teabell had rung, before hecould get his attention.

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After tea, he andMarie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlor almost in silence.

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain,and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with herknitting. St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft andmelancholy movement with the Æolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deepreverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a little, heopened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves wereyellow with age, and began turning it over.

"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother'sbooks,--and here is her handwriting,--come and look at it. She copiedand arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly.

"It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. "I think Ican hear her now."

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old Latinpiece, the "Dies Iræ."

Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the soundto the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not understand thewords, of course; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affecthim strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts.Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning ofthe beautiful words:--

"Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuær viæ Ne me perdas, illa die Quærens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus Tantus labor non sit cassus."*

* These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated:

"Think, O Jesus, for what reason Thou 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 pathetic expression into the words; forthe shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear hismother's voice leading his. Voice and instrument seemed both living, andthrew out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozartfirst conceived as his own dying requiem.

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his hand afew moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.

"What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!" said he,--"arighting of all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of all moral problems, byan unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed, a wonderful image."

"It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.

"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare stopping,thoughtfully. "I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter inMatthew that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck withit. One should have expected some terrible enormities charged to thosewho are excluded from Heaven, as the reason; but no,--they are condemnedfor _not_ doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm."

"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a person who does nogood not to do harm."

"And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deepfeeling, "what shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education,and the wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose; whohas floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of 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 beginnow."

"Always practical and to the point!" said St. Clare, his face breakingout into a smile. "You never leave me any time for general reflections,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 do with," said Miss Ophelia.

"Dear little Eva,--poor child!" said St. Clare, "she had set her littlesimple soul on a good work for me."

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said as manywords as these to her, and he spoke now evidently repressing very strongfeeling.

"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I think no man canconsistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his beingagainst this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the foundationof all our society; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle.That is, I mean that _I_ could not be a Christian otherwise, thoughI have certainly had intercourse with a great many enlightened andChristian people who did no such thing; and I confess that the apathyof religious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongsthat filled me with horror, have engendered in me more scepticism thanany other thing."

"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't you do it?"

"O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which consists inlying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being martyrsand confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how others ought tobe martyrs."

"Well, are you going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia.

"God only knows the future," said St. Clare. "I am braver than I was,because I have lost all; and he who has nothing to lose can afford allrisks."

"And what are you going to do?"

"My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out," saidSt. Clare, "beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet donenothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it may appear that I cando something for a whole class; something to save my country from thedisgrace of that false position in which she now stands before allcivilized nations."

"Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarilyemancipate?" said Miss Ophelia.

"I don't know," said St. Clare. "This is a day of great deeds. Heroismand disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the earth. TheHungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniaryloss; and, perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do notestimate honor and justice by dollars and cents."

"I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia.

"But, suppose we should rise up tomorrow and emancipate, who wouldeducate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom? Theynever would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too lazyand unpractical, ourselves, ever to give them much of an idea of thatindustry and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They willhave to go north, where labor is the fashion,--the universal custom;and tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy, among yournorthern states, to bear with the process of their education andelevation? You send thousands of dollars to foreign missions; but couldyou endure to have the heathen sent into your towns and villages, andgive your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the Christianstandard? That's what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willingto educate? How many families, in your town, would take a negro man andwoman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians? Howmany merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to make him a clerk; ormechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade? If I wanted to put Jane andRosa to a school, how many schools are there in the northern states thatwould take them in? how many families that would board them? and yetthey 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 the negro; but the unchristian prejudice of thenorth is an oppressor almost equally severe."

"Well, Cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia,--"I know it was sowith me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it; but, I trust Ihave overcome it; and I know there are many good people at the north,who in this matter need only to be _taught_ what their duty is, to doit. It would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen amongus, than to send missionaries to them; but I think we would do it."

"_You_ would, I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to see anything youwouldn't do, if you thought it your duty!"

"Well, I'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia. "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 bebrought to see as I do. Besides, I know there are many people at thenorth who do exactly what you said."

"Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin to emancipate toany 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 my mother so much, tonight," hesaid. "I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me. I keepthinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings these pastthings so vividly back to us, sometimes!"

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and thensaid,

"I believe I'll go down street, a few moments, 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 heshould 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,and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, andlistening to its murmur. Tom thought of his home, and that he shouldsoon be a free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought how heshould work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of hisbrawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belongto himself, and how much they could do to work out the freedom of hisfamily. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever second tothat, came the habitual prayer that he had always offered for him; andthen his thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought ofamong the angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that brightface and golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of thefountain. And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw hercoming bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreathof jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant withdelight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the ground; hercheeks wore a paler hue,--her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a goldenhalo seemed around her head,--and she vanished from his sight; and Tomwas awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate.

He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices and heavy tread,came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on ashutter. The light of the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave awild cry of amazement and despair, that rung through all the galleries,as the men advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor door, whereMiss Ophelia still sat knitting.

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As hewas reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, whowere both partially intoxicated. St. Clare and one or two others made aneffort to separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the sidewith a bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them.

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and screams,servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing themselves on theground, or running distractedly about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Opheliaalone seemed to have any presence of mind; for Marie was in stronghysteric convulsions. At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges inthe parlor was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St.Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of blood; but, as Miss Opheliaapplied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly onthem, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfullyover every object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture.

The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It was evident,from the expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he appliedhimself to dressing the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceededcomposedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries ofthe affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and windowsof the verandah.

"Now," said the physician, "we must turn all these creatures out; alldepends on his being kept quiet."

St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed beings,whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apartment."Poor creatures!" he said, and an expression of bitter self-reproachpassed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror haddeprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along thefloor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to MissOphelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety depended ontheir stillness and obedience.

St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it wasevident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while, he laidhis hand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him, and said, "Tom! poorfellow!"

"What, Mas'r?" said Tom, earnestly.

"I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand; "pray!"

"If you would like a clergyman--" said the physician.

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more earnestly,"Pray!"

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that waspassing,--the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully fromthose large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered withstrong crying and tears.

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand,looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, butstill retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black handand the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly tohimself, at broken intervals,

"Recordare Jesu pie-- * * * * Ne me perdas--illa die Quærens me--sedisti lassus."

It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening werepassing through his mind,--words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity.His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly fromthem.

"His mind is wandering," said the doctor.

"No! it is coming HOME, at last!" said St. Clare, energetically; "atlast! at last!"

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness of deathfell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of somepitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a weariedchild who sleeps.

So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on him.Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light,as of joy and recognition, and said _"Mother!"_ and then he was gone!