Uncle Tom's Cabin or, Life Among the Lowly

'Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messenger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into the kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely.'

'Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual tonight?'

'No; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming nearer,-thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels,-'it's the trumpet sound afore the break o' day,'' said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer verandah.

She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heart-felt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful, that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have them given; and her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia,-'Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all; she is certainly better;' and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had had there for weeks.

But at midnight,-strange, mystic hour!-when the veil between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin,-then came the messenger!

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of the night, had discerned what experienced nurses significantly call 'a change.' The outer door was quickly opened, and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert, in a moment.

'Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment,' said Miss Ophelia; and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door.

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

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bending over Eva, who still slept.

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still? Why was no word spoken between the two? Thou canst say, who hast seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee;-that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no longer thine.

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint,-only a high and almost sublime expression,-the overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul.

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tom returned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest.

'When did this change take place?' said he, in a low whisper, to Miss Ophelia.

'About the turn of the night,' was the reply.

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

'Augustine! Cousin!-O!-what!' she hurriedly began.

'Hush!' said St. Clare, hoarsely; 'she is dying!'

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house was soon roused,-lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the verandah, and looked tearfully through the glass doors; but St. Clare heard and said nothing,-he saw only that look on the face of the little sleeper.

'O, if she would only wake, and speak once more!' he said; and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear,-'Eva, darling!'

The large blue eyes unclosed-a smile passed over her face;-she tried to raise her head, and to speak.

'Do you know me, Eva?'

'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,-she struggled for breath, and threw up her little hands.

'O, God, this is dreadful!' he said, turning away in agony, and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. '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 up for help where he had always been used to look.

'Pray that this may be cut short!' said St. Clare,-'this wrings my heart.'

'O, bless the Lord! it's over,-it's over, dear Master!' said Tom; 'look at her.'

The child lay panting on her pillows, 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, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, brokenly,-'O! love,- joy,-peace!' gave one sigh and passed 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!'

CHAPTER XXVII

'This Is the Last of Earth' [20]

The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there, and the light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkened by closed blinds.

The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form,-sleeping never to waken!

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been wont to wear when living; the rose-colored light through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural sleep, but there was diffused over every lineament of the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, which showed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred rest which 'He giveth to his beloved.'

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva! neither darkness nor shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the victory without the battle,-the crown without the conflict.

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. Ah! who shall say what he did think? for, from the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, 'she is gone,' it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy 'dimness of anguish.' He had heard voices around him; he had had questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when he would have the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had