It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded, under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outrages of the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantly bound prayer book—she was holding it because it was Sunday—and she imagined she had been reading it—though, in fact, she had been only taking a succession of short naps with it open in her hand.

  Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom for a driver, to attend it, and Eva had accompanied them.

  "I say, Augustine," said Marie, after dozing a while, "I must send to the city after my old Doctor Posey; I'm sure I've got the complaint of the heart."

  "Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attends Eva seems skilful."

  "I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie; "and I think I may say mine is becoming so! I've been thinking of it these two or three nights past; I have such distressing pains, and such strange feelings."

  "Oh, Marie, you are blue; I don't believe it's heart complaint."

  "I dare say you don't," said Marie; "I was prepared to expect that. You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me."

  "If it's particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease, why, I'll try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare; "I didn't know it was."

  "Well; I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it's too late," said Marie; "but, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have long suspected."

  What the exertions were, which Marie referred to, it would have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted.

  Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber to put away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a word on any subject; while Eva came at St. Clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an account of the services they had heard.

  They soon heard a loud exclamation from Miss Ophelia's room, which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened on to the verandah, and violent reproof addressed to somebody.

  "What new witchcraft has Topsy been brewing?" asked St. Clare. "That commotion is of her raising, I'll be bound."

  And in a moment after Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, came dragging the culprit along.

  "Come out here, now," she said, "I will tell your master!"

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

  "The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child any longer; it's past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot endure it. Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to study; 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. I never saw anything like it in my life!"

  "I told you, Cousin," said Marie, "that you'd find out that these creatures can't be brought up without severity. If I had my way, now," she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, "I'd send that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped; I'd have her whipped till she couldn't stand."

  "I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. "Tell me of the lovely rule of woman! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn't half kill a horse, or a servant either, if they had their own way with them!—let alone a man."

  "There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare," said Marie; "Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now as plain as I do."

  Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been pretty actively roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many of my lady readers must own that they should have felt just so in her circumstances; but Marie's words went beyond her, and she felt less heat.

  "I wouldn't have the child treated so for the world," she said; "but I am sure, Augustin, I don't know what to do. I've taught and taught; I've talked till I'm tired; I've whipped her; I've punished her in every way I can think of, and still she's just what she was at first."

  "Come here, Tops, you monkey!" said St. Clare, calling the child up 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 not help being amused with the child's expression.

  "Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; "Miss Feely says so."

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

  "Lor, yes, mass'r; old 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 spects if they's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head, it wouldn't do no good neither—I's so wicked! Laws, I's nothin but a nigger, no ways!"

  "Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can't have that trouble any longer."

  "Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare.

  "What is it?"

  "Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are."

  Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva, who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room, and Eva and Topsy disappeared into this place.

  "What's Eva going about, now?" said St. Clare; "I mean to see."

  And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the glass door, and looked in; in a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern; but opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes.

  "What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won't you try and be good? Don't you love any body, Topsy?"

  "Donno nothing 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."

  "Oh, 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 Topsy. "If I could be skinned and come white, I'd try then."

  "But people can love you, 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?" said Eva.

  "No; she can't bar me, cause I'm a nigger—she'd 's 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.

  "Oh, 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 haven't had any father, or mother, or friends—because you've been a poor, abused child. I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, 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 heathen soul. She laid her head down between her knees, and wept and sobbed—while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the 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 to 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 of it, Topsy! you can be one of those spirits bright Uncle Tom sings about."

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

  St. Clare at this instant dropped the curtain. "It puts me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. "It is true what she told me—if we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did—call them to us, and put our hands on them."

  "I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia, "and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me; but I didn't think she knew it."

  "Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there's no keeping it from them; but I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart—it's a queer kind of a fact, but so it is."

  "I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia; "they are disagreeable to me—this child in particular—how can I help feeling so?"

  "Eva does, it seems."

  "Well, she's so loving. After all, though, she's no more than Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia; "I wish I were like her. She might teach me a lesson."

  "It wouldn't be the first time a little child had been used to instruct an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare.

——

CHAPTER XXV.

  Eva's bed room was a spacious apartment, which, like all the other rooms in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room communicated, on one side, with her father and mother's apartment, on the other with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste in furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping with the character of her for whom it was intended. The windows were hung with curtains of rose-colored and white muslin, the floor was spread with a matting which had been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border of rose-buds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-blown roses. The bedstead, chairs, and lounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was an alabaster bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle leaves. >From this depended over the bed light curtains of rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying that protection from mosquitoes which is an indispensable addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate. The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-colored damask, while over them, depending from the hands of sculptured figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A light, fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. On this table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an elegantly wrought alabaster writing stand, which her father had supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the marble mantel above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of Jesus receiving little children, and on either side marble vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite paintings of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood, of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the morning light, without falling on something which suggested to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts.

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

  It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so reclining—her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers lying listlessly between the leaves—suddenly she heard her mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the verandah.

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

  "Law, missis—they's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice say, which she knew belonged to Topsy.

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

  In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge and in the verandah.

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

  "Why, Eva, your room is full now."

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

  Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightness which was usual with her.

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

  It was indeed a singular one—a brilliant and scarlet geranium, and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was tied up with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and the arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied.

  Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said—"Topsy, you arrange flowers very prettily. Here," she said, "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'd as leave as not Topsy should do it—had you not?"

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

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

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

  "Oh nonsense; it's only because she likes to do mischief—she knows she mustn't pick flowers, so she does it—that's all there is to it; but if you fancy to have her pluck them, so be it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become an angel, 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."

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

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

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

  "What's a pity?" said Marie.

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

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

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

  "That's odd enough," said Marie—"I'm sure my religion makes me thankful for my advantages."

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

  "What for?" said Marie.

  "Mamma, 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?"

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

  The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and shaking down her long golden brown curls, said, rather playfully—

  "Come, aunty, shear the sheep!"

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

  "Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair—there's too much of it, and it makes my head hot—besides, I want to give some of it away."

  Miss Ophelia came with her scissors.

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

  "Oh, papa!" said Eva, sadly.

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

  "I shall never go there, papa—I am going to a better country. Oh, do believe me! Don't you see, papa, that I get weaker every day!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other; it was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly bonds; it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated the difference between the two.

  She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and sat down by her.

  "Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I must go. There are some things I want to say and do—that I ought to do—and you are so unwilling to have me speak a word on this subject, but it must come; there's no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now!"

  "My child, I am willing," said St. Clare, covering his eyes with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other.

  "Then, I want to see all our people together. I have some things I must say to them," said Eva.

  "Well," said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.

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

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

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

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

  "I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, "because I love you. I love you all; and I have something to say to you which I want 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 lost entirely. 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. It is for you as much as me. But, if you want to go there, you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless 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, 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 all in heaven."

  "Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist church. The younger and more thoughtless ones, for the time completely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their knees.

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

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

  "Yes, I know you do! There isn't one of you that hasn't always been very kind to me; and I want to give you something that when you look at you shall always remember me. I'm going to give all of you a curl of 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."