IT WAS SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Miss Ophelia, who had, after some rummaging hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out with Tom as driver, to attend it; and Eva had gone with them. When they returned Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber to put away her bonnet and shawl, while Eva came at St. Clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an accout of the services.

  A moment after, Miss Ophelia came in, dragging Topsy along. "Come out here, now!" she said. "I will tell your master!"

   "What's the matter now?" asked Augustine.

  "I can not be plagued with this child, any longer! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to learn, and what does she do, but spy out where I put my key, and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet trimming, and cut it all to pieces to make dolls' jackets!"

  "Come here, Tops, you monkey!" said St. Clare, calling the child to him. Topsy came up, her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery.

  "What makes you behave so?" said St. Clare, who could hardly help not being amused with the child's expression.

  "S'pects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; "Miss Feely says it's that."

  "Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? She says she has done everything she can think of."

  "Lor, yes, Mas'r! ole missis used to say so, too. She whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it didn't do me no good! I s'pects, if they's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head, it wouldn't do no good, neither—I's so wicked! I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways!"

  Eva, who had been a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little room at the comer of the veranda, and into this Eva led the way.

  "What makes you so bad, Topsy?" she asked, with tears in her eyes. "Why won't you try to be good? Don't you love anybody, Topsy?"

  "Dunno nothin' 'bout love; I loves candy and sich, that's all" said Topsy.

  "But you love your father and mother."

  "Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva."

  "O, I know," said Eva, sadly; "but hadn't you any brother or sister, or aunt, or——"

  "No, none on 'em—never had nothin' nor nobody."

  "But, Topsy, if you'd only try to be good, you might——"

  "Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever so good," said the child. "If I could be skinned, and out out white, I'd try then."

  "But people can love you, even if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you, if you were good."

  Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of expressing incredulity.

  "Don't you think so?" asked Eva.

  "No, she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger—she'd soon have a toad touch her! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin'! I don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle.

  "O, Topsy, poor child, I love you!" said Eva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy's shoulder; "I love you because you've never had any father or morther, or friends,—because you've been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very sick, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great while; and it really grieves me, to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good, for my sake—it's only a little while I shall be with you."

  The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears—large bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment, a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her soul! She laid her head down between her knees and wept and sobbed—while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like a picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner.

  "Poor Topsy," said Eva, "don't you know that Jesus loves all alike? He is just as willing to love you, as me. He loves you just as I do—only more, because he is better. He will help you be good; and you can go to Heaven at last and be an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. Only think about it, Topsy, you can be one of those spirits bright, Uncle Tom sings about."

  "O, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try, I will try; I never did care nothin' about it before."

  The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little while was fast passing away; and oftener and oftener she was found reclining on a little couch by the open window. One afternoon, as she was so reclining, she heard her mother's voice, in sharp tones, on the veranda.

  "You've been picking the flowers, hey?" and Eva heard the sound of a smart slap.

  "Law, missis, they's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice, that she knew was Topsy's reply.

  "Miss Eva! A pretty excuse! Do you suppose she wants your flowers, you good for nothing nigger! Get along off with you!"

  In a moment Eva was off her couch, and out on the veranda.

  "O, don't, mother! I should like the flowers; do give them to me."

  "Why, Eva, your room is full, now."

  "I can't have too many, mother. Topsy, do bring them here."

  Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now came up and offered her flowers. She looked pleased, as Eva said: "Topsy, you arrange flowers very prettily. Here is this vase I haven't any flowers for. I wish you'd arrange something every day for it."

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

  "Never mind, mamma; you are willing Topsy should do it, are you not?"

  "Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear your young mistress—see that you mind."

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

  "Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be; she's trying to be a good girl," said Eva.

  "She'll have to try a long while before she gets to be good," said Marie, with a careless laugh.

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

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

  "It's such a pity—oh, such a pity!" said Eva, speaking half to herself.

  "What's a pity?" asked her mother.

  "Why, that anyone, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels, should go down, down, down, and nobody help them—oh, dear!

  "Well, we can't help it; it's no use worrying, Eva."

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

  "What for?"

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

  "What's that?" asked St. Clare, who had just entered the room.

  "Papa, I just want Aunty to cut off some of my hair. I want to give some away."

  Miss Ophelia came with her scissors.

  St. Clare stood gloomily eying the long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. At last Eva beckoned to her father to come nearer. He came, and sat down by her side.

  "Papa," she said, "my strength fades away every day, and I know I must go soon. I want to see all our people together. I have some things I must say to them."

  Miss Ophelia dispatched a messenger, and soon the whole of the servants were gathered in the room.

  Eva lay back on her pillow, her large, soul-like eyes fixed earnestly on every one.

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

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

  "If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to what I say. I want 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 you to remember that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going there, and you can go there, too. It is for you, as much as for me. But, if you want to go there, you must not live idle, careless lives. You must be Christians. You must remember that each one of you can become angels, and be angels forever. If you want to be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to him; you must read——"

  The child checked herself, and looked piteously at them and said, sorrowfully: "Oh, dear! you can't read—poor souls!" and she hid her face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her.

  "Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brightly through her tears, "I have prayed for you; and I know Jesus will help you, even if you can't read. Try all to do the best you can; pray every day; ask him to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you can; and I think I shall see you in Heaven."

  "Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and Mammy, and some of the older ones, who belonged to the Methodist church.

  The younger and more thoughtless, for the time completely overcome, were sobbing with their heads bowed upon their knees.

  "I know," said Eva, "that you all love me."

  "Yes, oh yes! indeed we do! Lord bless her! " was the involuntary answer of all.

  "Yes, I know you do. There isn't one of you that hasn't always been kind to me; and I want to give you something, that, when you look at, you will always remember me. I am going to give you all a curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am gone to Heaven, and that I want to see you all there."

  It is impossible to describe the scene, as,with tears and sobs, they gathered round the little creature, and took from her hands what seemed to 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 older ones poured forth words of endearment, mingled prayers and blessings.

  As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient, signed to each to pass out of the apartment. At last all were gone but Mammy and Uncle Tom.

  "Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, holding up a beautiful one, "this is for you. O, I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in Heaven—for I'm sure I shall; and Mammy—dear, good, kind Mammy!" she said, throwing her arms around her old nurse—"I know you will be there, too."

  "O, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live wid out ye, nohow!" said the faithful old creature. "Pears like it's jest takin' everything off the place to oncet!" and Mammy gave way to a passion of grief.

  Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the room, and thought they were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy was standing there. "Where did you start up from?" she said, suddenly.

  "I was here all the time," 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 at that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be a good girl."

  "O, Miss Eva, I is trying!" said Topsy earnestly; "but, Lor, it's so hard to be good! 'Pears like I ain't used to it, no ways."

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

  Topsy, with her eyes hidden in her apron, was silently passed from the apartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she hid the precious curl in her bosom. All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy lady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene; but concern for the consequences of such an excitement to her young niece was uppermost in her mind.

  St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his hand shading his eyes, in the same position. When they were all gone, he sat so still.

  "Papa," said Eva, gently, laying her hand in his.

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

  "Dear papa, " said Eva.

  "I can not" said St. Clare, "I can not have it so! The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me!" and St. Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.

   "Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with His own?" said Miss Ophelia.

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

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

  "There, Eva—there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was wrong; I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way—only don't distress yourself; don't sob so. 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, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of.

  Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, where she fell into violent hysterics.

  Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little, frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and down her room, now out on the veranda, and when the fresh sea breezes blew from the lake—the child felt freshest in the morning—he would sometimes walk with her under the orange trees in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns.

  Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, and he soon wearied. The Eva would say to him:

  "O, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; and you know it is 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 read to me, you sit up nights; but Tom has only this thing, and his singing; and I know, too, that he does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong."

   The desire to do something for Eva was not confined to Tom. Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what they could.

  Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room; but lay all night in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call.

  "Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment," said Miss Ophelia, rousing him one night about twelve o'clock, and stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door.

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

  In a few minutes Tom returned with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest.

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

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

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

  Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house was soon roused; anxious faces thronged the veranda, and looked tearfully through the glass doors.

  "O, if she would only wake and speak once more!" exclaimed St. Clare, and stooping low over her, he spoke in her ear, "Eva, darling!"

  "Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again; and, as St. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face.

  "O, God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and wringing Tom's hand. "O, Tom, my boy, it is killing me."

  Tom had his master's hands between his own; and, with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked for help where he had been always used to look.

  "Pray that this maybe cut short!" said St. Clare—"this wrings my heart, Tom."

  "O, bless the Lord! it's over—it's over, dear mas'r," said Tom; "look at her, mas'r."

  The child lay panting on her pillow, as one exhausted—the large, clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes, that spoke so much of heaven? Earth was past, and earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked even the sobs of sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless stillness.

   "Eva," said St. Clare, gently. She did not hear.

  "O, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?" said her father.

  A bright, glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, brokenly—"O! love—joy—peace!" gave one sigh, and passed forever from death unto life.

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