University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
REUNION.

Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and
the waves of life settled back to their usual flow, where that
little bark had gone down. For how imperiously, how coolly,
in disregard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting
course of daily realities move on! Still must we eat,
and drink, and sleep, and wake again, — still bargain, buy,
sell, ask and answer questions, — pursue, in short, a thousand
shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold mechanical
habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it
has fled.

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously
wound themselves around this child. It was for
Eva that he had managed his property; 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 she was 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 as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise

unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to orders of
mysterious, untold value. St. Clare knew this well; and
often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish
voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing
to him the way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow
lay on him, — he could not arise. He had one of those
natures which could better and more clearly conceive of religious
things from its own perceptions and instincts, than
many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The gift to
appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations
of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole
life shows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore,
Byron, Goethe, often speak 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
religious obligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave him
such an instinctive view of the extent of the requirements of
Christianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt
would be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did
resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature,
especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all
seems better than to undertake and come short.

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He
read his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought
more soberly and practically of his relations to his servants,
— enough to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his
past and present course; and one thing he did, soon after his
return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the legal
steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected
as soon as he could get through the necessary formalities.

Meantime, he attached himself to Tom more and more,
every day. In all the wide world, there was nothing that
seemed to remind him so much of Eva; and he would insist
on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and
unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings,
he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have
wondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and
devotion with which Tom continually followed his young
master.

“Well, Tom,” said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced
the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, “I'm
going to make a free man of you; — 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 hands to 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 have n't had such very bad times here, that you
need be in such a rapture, Tom,” he said, drily.

“No, no, Mas'r! 'tan't that,—it 's bein' a free man!
That 's what I 'm joyin' for.”

“Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you 've
been better off than to be free?”

“No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash of
energy. “No, indeed!”

“Why, Tom, you could n't possibly have earned, by your
work, such clothes and 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 month or so,” he added, rather discontentedly.
“Though why you should n't, no mortal knows,” he said, in a
gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the floor.

“Not while Mas'r is in trouble,” said Tom. “I 'll stay
with Mas'r as long as he wants me, — so as I can be any use.”

“Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?” said St. Clare, looking
sadly out of the window..... “And when will
my trouble 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's shoulder. “Ah, Tom, you soft,
silly boy! I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your
wife and children, and give my love to all.”

“I 's faith to believe that day will come,” said Tom,
earnestly, and with tears in his eyes; “the Lord has a work
for Mas'r.”

“A work, hey?” said St. Clare; “well, now, Tom, give
me your views on what sort of a work it is; — let 's hear.”

“Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the
Lord; and Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and
friends, — how much he might do for the Lord!”

“Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done
for him,” said St. Clare, smiling.

“We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs,”
said Tom.

“Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare
swear,” said St. Clare.

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement
of some visiters.

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could

feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great
faculty of making everybody unhappy when she was, her
immediate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the
loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle
intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the
tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old
Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed from all natural
domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautiful
being, was almost heart-broken. She cried day and night,
and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in her
ministrations on her mistress than usual, which drew down a
constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.

Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest
heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened,
more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every
duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed
with her own heart not in vain. She was more diligent
in teaching Topsy, — taught her mainly from the Bible,
— did not any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an
ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. She viewed her
now through the softened medium that Eva's hand had first
held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal creature,
whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and virtue.
Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and
death of Eva did work a marked change in her. The callous
indifference was gone; there was now sensibility, hope,
desire, and the striving for good, — a strife irregular, interrupted,
suspended oft, but yet renewed again.

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia,
she came, hastily thrusting 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 to call 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 know yer tricks,” and Rosa seized her arm,
and tried to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy,
enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for what she considered
her rights. The clamor and confusion of the battle drew
Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot.

“She 's been stealing!” said Rosa.

“I han't, neither!” vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion.

“Give me that, whatever it is!” said Miss Ophelia, firmly.

Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her
bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own
old stockings.

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book,
which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single
verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and
in a paper the curl of hair that she had given 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 book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn
from the funeral weeds.

“What did you wrap this round the book for?” said St.
Clare, holding up the crape.

“Cause, — cause, — cause 't was Miss Eva. O, don't take
'em away, please!” she said; and, sitting flat down on the
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to sob
vehemently.

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,

— the little old stocking, — black crape, — text-book, — fair,
soft curl, — and Topsy's utter 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 them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew
Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor.

“I really think you can make something of that concern,”
he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder.
“Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of
good. You must try and do something with her.”

“The child has improved greatly,” said Miss Ophelia. “I
have great hopes of her; but, Augustine,” she said, laying
her hand on his arm, “one thing I want to ask; whose 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 you become a slave-holder!”

“O, nonsense! I want her mine, that I may have a right
to take her to the free States, and give her her liberty, that
all I am trying to do be not undone.”

“O, cousin, what an awful `doing evil that good may
come'! I can't encourage it.”

“I don't want you to joke, but to reason,” said Miss
Ophelia. “There is no use in my trying to make this child
a Christian child, unless I save her from all the chances and
reverses of slavery; and, if you really are willing I should
have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal
paper.”

“Well, well,” said St. Clare, “I will;” and he sat down,
and unfolded a newspaper 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 Miss Ophelia. “Come, now, here 's paper, pen,
and ink; just write a paper.”

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

“Why, what 's the matter?” said he. “Can't you take
my word? One would think you had taken lessons 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 a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;”
and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which,
as he was well versed in the forms of law, he could easily do,
and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by
a tremendous flourish.

“There, is n't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?”
he said, as he handed it to her.

“Good boy,” said Miss Ophelia, smiling. “But must it
not be witnessed?”

“O, bother! — yes. Here,” he said, opening the door into
Marie's apartment, “Marie, Cousin wants your autograph;
just put your name down here.”

“What 's this?” said Marie, as she ran over the paper.
“Ridiculous! I thought Cousin was too pious for such

horrid things,” she added, as she carelessly wrote her name;
“but, if she has a fancy for that article, I am sure she 's
welcome.”

“There, now, she 's yours, body and soul,” said St. Clare,
handing the paper.

“No more mine now than she was before,” said Miss
Ophelia. “Nobody but God has 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 he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his
paper.

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

“Augustine,” she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting,
“have you ever made any provision for your servants, in case
of your death?”

“No,” said St. Clare, as he read on.

“Then all your indulgence to them may 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 paper and looking at her. “Do you think I show
symptoms of yellow fever or cholera, 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 the door that stood open on the verandah, to put an
end to a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Mechanically,
he repeated the last word again, — “Death!” —
and, as he leaned against the railings, and watched the sparkling
water as it rose and fell in the fountain; and, as in a dim
and dizzy haze, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts,
he repeated again the mystic word so common in every
mouth, yet of such fearful power, — “Death!” “Strange
that there should be such a word,” he said, “and such a
thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, 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 the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his
Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each successive
word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest
air.

“Want me to read to you, Tom?” said St. Clare, seating
himself carelessly by him.

“If Mas'r pleases,” said Tom, gratefully, “Mas'r makes
it so much plainer.”

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and
began reading one of 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 angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne
of his glory: and before him shall be gathered all nations;
and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd
divideth his sheep from the goats.” St. Clare read on in an
animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses.

“Then shall the king say unto them on his left hand,

Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire: for I was
an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye
gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took 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 saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or
naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to
one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me.”

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read
it twice, — the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving
the words in his mind.

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

Tom did not answer.

St. Clare rose up and walked 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 tea-bell had rung, before he could get his
attention.

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After
tea, he and Marie 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 her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the
piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement
with the Æolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep
reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a

little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book
whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning
it over.

“There,” he said to Miss Ophelia, “this was one of my
mother's books, — and here is her handwriting, — come and
look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's
Requiem.” Miss Ophelia came accordingly.

“It was something she used to sing often,” said St. Clare.
“I think I can hear her now.”

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that
grand old Latin piece, the “Dies Iræ.”

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

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the

words; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and
he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and
instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid
sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived
as his own dying requiem.

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

“What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!”
said he, — “a righting of all the wrongs of ages! — a solving
of all moral problems, by an 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 in Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have
been quite struck with it. One should have expected some
terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from
Heaven, as the reason; but no, — they are condemned for not
doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Ophelia, “it is impossible for a person
who does no good not to do harm.”

“And what,” said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but
with deep feeling, “what shall be said of one whose own
heart, whose education, and the wants of society, have called
in vain to some noble purpose; who has 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 begin now.”

“Always practical and to the point!” said St. Clare, his
face breaking out into a smile. “You never leave me any

time for general reflections, Cousin; you always bring me
short up against the actual present; you have 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 little simple soul on a good work for me.”

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever
said as many words as these of her, and he spoke now evidently
repressing very strong feeling.

“My view of Christianity is such,” he added, “that I
think no man can consistently profess it without throwing the
whole weight of his being against this monstrous system of
injustice that lies at the foundation of all our society; and, if
need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that
I could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly
had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian
people who did no such thing; and I confess that the apathy
of religious people on this subject, their want of perception
of wrongs that filled me with horror, have engendered in me
more scepticism than any other thing.”

“If you knew all this,” said Miss Ophelia, “why did n't
you do it?”

“O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence
which consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and
clergy for not being martyrs and confessors. One can see,
you know, very easily, how others ought to be 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 all risks.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it
out,” said St. Clare, “beginning with my own servants, for
whom I have yet done nothing; and, perhaps, at some future
day, it may appear that I can do something for a whole class;
something to save my country from the disgrace of that false
position in which she now stands before all civilized nations.”

“Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily
emancipate?” said Miss Ophelia.

“I don't know,” said St. Clare. “This is a day of great
deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and
there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions
of serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss; and, perhaps, among
us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor
and justice by dollars and cents.”

“I hardly think so,” said Miss Ophelia.

“But, suppose we should rise up to-morrow and emancipate,
who would educate these millions, and teach them how
to use their freedom? They never would rise to do much
among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, ourselves,
ever to give them much of an idea of that industry
and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They
will have to go north, where labor is the fashion, — the universal
custom; and tell me, now, is there enough Christian
philanthropy, among your northern states, to bear with the
process of their education and elevation? You send thousands
of dollars to foreign missions; but could you endure to
have the heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give
your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the
Christian standard? That 's what I want to know. If we
emancipate, are you willing to educate? How many families,
in your town, would take in a negro man and woman, teach

them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians?
How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to
make him a clerk; or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a
trade? If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how
many schools are there in the northern states that would
take them in? how many families that would board them?
and yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south.
You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad
position. We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro;
but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor
almost equally severe.”

“Well, Cousin, I know it is so,” said Miss Ophelia, — “I
know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to
overcome it; but, I trust I have overcome it; and I know
there are many good people at the north, who in this matter
need only to be taught what their duty is, to do it. It
would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen
among us, 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 you would n'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 be brought to see as I do. Besides,
I know there are many people at the north who do
exactly what you said.”

“Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin
to emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you.”

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some
moments; and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad,
dreamy expression.

“I don't know what makes me think of my mother so
much, to-night,” he said. “I have a strange kind of feeling,
as if she were near me. I keep thinking of things she used
to say. Strange, what brings these past things so vividly
back to us, sometimes!”

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

“I believe I 'll go down street, a few moments, and hear
the news, to-night.”

He took his hat, and passed out.

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and
asked if he should attend him.

“No, my boy,” said St. Clare. “I shall be back in an
hour.”

Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlight
evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling
spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur. Tom
thought of his home, and that he should soon be a free man,
and able to return to it at will. He thought how he should
work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his
brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would
soon belong to himself, and how much they could do to work
out the freedom of his family. Then he thought of his noble
young master, and, ever second to that, came the habitual
prayer that he had always offered for him; and then his
thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now
thought of among the angels; and he thought till he almost
fancied that that bright face and golden hair were looking
upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. And, so musing,
he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding
towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessamine
in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant

with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the
ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue, — her eyes had a deep,
divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head, —
and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was 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 a shutter. The light of the lamp fell
full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement and
despair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men
advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor door, where
Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.

St. Clare had turned into a café, to look over an evening
paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen
in the room, who were both partially intoxicated. St.
Clare and one or two others made an effort to separate them,
and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with 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 the ground, or running distractedly about,
lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have
any presence of mind; for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions.
At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in
the parlor was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid
upon it. St. Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of
blood; but, as Miss Ophelia applied restoratives, he revived,
opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them, looked earnestly
around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully over every
object, and 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 applied himself to dressing the wound, and
he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with
this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the
affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and
windows of the verandah.

“Now,” said the physician, “we must turn all these
creatures out; all depends 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-reproach passed over his
face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived
him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along on the
floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest
yielded to Miss Ophelia's urgent representations, that their
master's safety depended on their stillness and obedience.

St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut,
but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts.
After a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling
beside him, and said, “Tom! poor fellow!”

“What, Mas'r?” said Tom, earnestly.

“I am dying!” said St. Clare, pressing 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 was passing, — the soul that seemed looking so
steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy blue
eyes. It was literally prayer offered with strong 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, but still retained his hold; for, in the
gates of eternity, the black hand and the white hold each other
with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at
broken intervals,

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

“His mind is wandering,” said the doctor.

“No! it is coming HOME, at last!” said St. Clare, energetically;
“at last! at last!”

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

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