LIFE PASSES, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend Tom, till two years were gone. The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshiped her as something heavenly and divine. To humor her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants which invest childhood like a many colored rainbow, was Tom's chief delight.

  Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though a child, she was a beautiful reader; a fine musical ear, a quick, poetic fancy, and an instinctive sympathy with what is grand and noble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom had never heard before. At first she read to please her humble friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved it, because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel.

  At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. St Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light verandas of bamboo work, and opening on all sides into gardens and pleasure grounds. The common living room opened on to a large garden, fragrant with every picturesque plant and flower of the tropics, where winding paths ran down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams.

  It was now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles the whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, save where white-winged vessels glided hither and thither.

  Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva's Bible lay open on her knee. She read:

  "And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire."

  "Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake, "there it is."

  "What, Miss Eva?"

  "Don't you see—there?" said the child, pointing to the glassy water which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky. "There is a sea of glass, mingled with fire."

  "True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom.

  "Where do you suppose the New Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?" said Eva.

  "Oh, up in the clouds, Miss Eva."

  "Then I think I see it," said Eva. "Look in those clouds! they look like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them—far, far off—it's all gold. Uncle Tom, I'm going there."

  "Where, Miss Eva?"

  The child rose, and pointed with her little hand to the sky, and Tom' faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust, as he thought how many times, with in the last six months, he had noticed that Eva's hands had grown thinner and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter; and how, when she ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired and languid.

  The colloquy between Eva and Tom was interrupted by a hasty call from Miss Ophelia.

  "Eva—Eva!—why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn't be out there!"

  Eva and Tom hastened in.

  Miss Ophelia was skilled in nursing. She was from New England, and knew well the first deceptive footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.

  She had noticed the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek, the luster of the eye and the airy buoyancy born of fever.

  She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless good-humor.

  The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and kindness. She still loved to play with Topsy, and various colored children, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at Topsy's odd tricks—and then a shadow would seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were far away.

  About this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with his eldest son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake. Henrique was a noble, dark-eyed, princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit, and, from the first moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by the graces of his cousin Evangeline.

  Eva had a little pet pony, and this was now brought up to the back veranda by Tom, while a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small black Arabian for Henrique.

  Henrique advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom. As he did so, his brow darkened, and he exclaimed:

  "What's this, Dodo, you lazy little dog! you haven't rubbed my horse down this morning."

  "Yes, Mas'r, I did rub him down," said Dodo, submissively; "he got dat dust on his own self."

  "You rascal, shut your mouth!" cried Henrique, violently raising his riding whip. "How dare you speak?"

  "Mas'r Henrique—" began Dodo.

  Henrique struck him across the face with his whip, exclaiming: "There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to answer back when I speak to you? Take the horse back and clean him properly. I'll teach you your place."

  "Young mas'r," said Tom, "I specs what he was gwine to say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringin' him up from the stable; he's so full of spirits—that's the way he got that dirt on him; I looked to his cleaning myself."

  "Hold your tongue, till you're asked to speak!" said Henrique.

  "Dear cousin, I am sorry this stupid fellow has kept you waiting," he said, turning to Eva. "Why, what's the matter? You look sober."

  "How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?" cried Eva.

  "Cruel—wicked!" said the boy, with unaffected surprise. "What do you mean, dear Eva?"

  "I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so," said Eva.

  "Dear cousin, you don't know Dodo; it's the only way to manage him. Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak; but I won't beat him again before you, if it troubles you."

  Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her cousin understand her feelings.

  Dodo soon appeared with the horse.

  "Well, Dodo, you have done pretty well this time," said his young master, with a more gracious air. "Come, now, and hold Miss Eva's horse, while I put her in the saddle."

  Henrique soon had his cousin in the saddle, and, gathering the reins, put them in her hands.

  But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins: "That's a good boy, Dodo; thank you!"

  Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and tears to his eyes.

  "Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously.

  Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.

  "There's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," said Henrique; "go get some."

  Henrique cantered down the drive after Eva. Dodo stood looking after the two children. One had given him money; and one had given him what he wanted far more—a kind word, kindly spoken.

  Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted: and Eva, who had been stimulated, by the society of her young cousin, to exertions beyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing to call in medical advice.

  Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually decaying health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease to which she believed she herself was a victim. Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal fears about Eva; but to no avail.

  In a week or two there seemed to be a marked improvement in Eva's condition. Her step was again in the garden and the balconies; she played and laughed again; and her father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the doctor alone felt no encouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that was the heart of Eva. There a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty rested that Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.

  For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfolding before her with every brightness that love and wealth could give, had no regret that she was dying.

  In that book which she and her simple old friend Tom had read so much together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of One who loved the little child; and as she gazed and mused, He had ceased to be an image and a picture of the distant past, and had come to be a living, all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more than mortal tenderness; and it was to Him, she said, she was going, and to His home.

  But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she was to leave behind. Her father most—for Eva, though she never distinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception that she was more in his heart than any other. She loved her mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her; for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother could not do wrong. There was something about her that Eva could not make 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 as day-

  "Uncle Tom," she said one day, when she was reading to him, "I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for us."

  "Why, Miss Eva?"

  "Because I've felt so, too."

  "What is that, 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 some their husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children—and a great many other times, I've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dying could 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's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, as he looked after her.

  "It's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to Mammy, whom he met a moment after. "She's got the Lord's mark on 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 something deep in her eyes. I've told missis so, many times; it's comin' true—we all sees it—dear, little blessed lamb!"

  Eva came tripping up the veranda steps to her father. It was late in the afternoon, and the rays of the setting sun, formed a kind of glory behind her, as she came forward in her white dress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that burned in her veins.

  St. Clare had called her to show her a statuette he had bought for her, but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly and painfully. He folded her suddenly in his arms, and said: "Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days, are you not?"

  "It's no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer," replied the child. "The time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, never to come back again!" and Eva sobbed.

  "O, now, my dear Eva!" said St. Clare, trembling as he spoke, "you must not indulge in such gloomy thoughts."

  "No, papa," said Eva, "I am not any better. I know it perfectly well—and I am going before long. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly happy. I long to go!"

  "Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad?"

  "I feel sad for our poor people. I wish, papa, they were all free. Papa, isn't there any way to have all slaves made free?"

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

  "Papa, you are so noble and kind, couldn't you go all round 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."

  "When you are dead, Eva." said St. Clare, passionately. "O, child, don't talk to me so!"

  "Promise me, at least, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as soon as I am gone."

  "Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world—anything you could ask me to do."

  "Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against his, "how I wish we could go together!"

  "Where, dearest?" asked St. Clare.

  "To our Savior's home; it is so sweet and peaceful there—it is all so loving there!" The child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where she had often been. "Do 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 calm certainty 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 breast. He saw no more the deep eyes, but the. voice came over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment vision, his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes—his mother's prayers and hymns; his own early yearnings and aspirations for good; and, between them and this hour, years of worldliness and skepticism, and what man calls respectable living. We can think much, very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw and felt many things, but spoke nothing; and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her bedroom; and, when she was prepared for rest, he sent away the attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till she was asleep.