EVANGELINE'S PURITY.

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father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no encouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. What is it that sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? Be it what it may, it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty 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 for herself in dying.

In that Book which she and her simple old friend 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 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 never could 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 daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize; but Eva was an uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of the evils of the system under which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague longings to do something for them-to bless and save not only them, but all in their condition-longings that contrasted sadly with the feebleness of her little frame.

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

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Why, Miss Eva ?"

"Because I've felt so, too."

"What is it, 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 when I heard about poor Prue-oh, wasn't that dreadful?--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 carnestly, 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

198 EVA'S YEARNINGS FOR THE HAPPINESS OF OTHERS.

whom he met a moment after. forehead."

"She's got the Lord's mark in he

"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 the time; it's a comin' true-we all sees it-dear, little, blessed lamb!"

Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It was late in the afternoon, and the rays of the 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 a statuette that he had been buying for her; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly and painfully. There is a kind of beauty so intense, yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look at it. Her father folded her suddenly in his arms, and almost forgot what he was going to tell her.

"Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days, are you not?"

Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, "I've had things I wanted to say to you a great while. I want to say them now, before I get weaker."

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. head on his bosom and said

She laid her

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

"Oh, now, my dear little Eva!" said St. Clare, trembling as he spoke, but speaking cheerfully, "you've got nervous and low-spirited: you musn't indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here, I've bought a statuette for you!

"No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, "don't deceive yourself! I am not any better-I know it perfectly well; and I am going before long. I am not nervous-I am not low-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly happy. I want to go-I long to go!"

"Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad? You have had everything to make you happy that could be given you?"

"I had rather be in heaven, though-only, for my friends' sake I would be willing to live. There are a great many things here that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me. I had rather be there; but I don't want to leave you-it almost breaks my heart!"

"What makes you sad and seems dreadful, Eva?"

"Oh, things that are done and done all the time. I feel sad for our poor people; they love me dearly, and they are all good and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free."

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Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off now?” "Oh, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would become of them? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle Alfred isn't like you, and mamma isn't; and then think of poor old Prue's owners! What horrid things people do, and can do!" And Eva shuddered.

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My dear child, you are too sensitive. I am sorry I ever let you ear such stories."

"Oh, that's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live so happy,

EVANGELINE'S LAST REQUEST.

199 and never to have any pain, never suffer anything, not even hear a sad story, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow all their lives; it seems selfish. I ought to know such things-I ought to feel about them. Such things always sank into my heart; they went down deep; I've thought and thought about them. Papa, isn't there any way to have all slaves made free?"

"That's a 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."

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Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleasant; 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. I would do it if I could."

"Oh,

"When you are dead, Eva!" said St. Clare, passionately. child, don't talk to me so! You are all I have on earth." "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. Oh, do something for them! There's poor Mammy loves her children; I've seen her crying 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, and don't talk of dying, and I will do anything you wish."

soon as

"And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom 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 al. 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 bedroom, and when she was prepared for rest he sent away the attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sang to her till she was asleep.