Uncle Tom's Cabin or, Life Among the Lowly

'Poor old Prue's child was all that she had,-and yet she had to hear it crying, and she couldn't help it! Papa, these poor creatures love their children as much as you do me. O! do something for them! There's poor Mammy loves her children; I've seen her cry when she talked about them. And Tom loves his children; and it's dreadful, papa, that such things are happening, all the time!'

'There, there, darling,' said St. Clare, soothingly; 'only don't distress yourself, don't talk of dying, and I will do anything you wish.'

'And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as soon as'-she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone-'I am gone!'

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

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

'Where, dearest?' said St. Clare.

'To our Saviour's home; it's so sweet and peaceful there-it is all so loving there!' The child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where she had often been. 'Don't 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 bosom. 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 aspirings for good; and, between them and this hour, years of worldliness and scepticism, 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 bed-room; 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.

CHAPTER XXV

The Little Evangelist

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 mosquitos, 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 as 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.'

'O, 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 loud exclamations 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 Tops 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, Augustine, 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 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.'