them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not eat; and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat would choke her. "No, no, Harry, darling! mother can't eat till you are safe ! We must go on-on-till we come to the river!" And she hurried again into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly forward. She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. As she was also so white as not to be known as of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much easier for her to pass on unsuspected. On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the danger decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry. The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleased than otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted, without examination, Eliza's statement that she "was going on a little piece, to spend a week with her friends"-all which she hoped in her heart might prove strictly true. An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T————, by the Ohio River, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of liberty on the other side. EVA'S DEATH. Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more any doubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick room; and Miss Ophelia day and night performed the duties of a nurse, and never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neatness and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sickness-with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering every prescription and direction of the doctors-she was everything to St. Clare. They who had shrugged their shoulders at the little peculiarities and setnesses-so unlike the careless freedom of southern manners-acknowledged that now she was the exact person that was wanted. 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 into the veranda; and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake-and 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 when he was weary, Eva would say to him— "O, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; and you know it's 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-and Tom has only this one thing, and his singing; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong!" The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what they could. But the friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she would not disturb her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever. Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call. "Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, for ?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thought you was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way." "I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. "I do, but "We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on't; but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody wi for the bridegroom." "What do you mean, Tom ?" "You know it says in Scripture: ‘At midnight, them vu a great cry made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh T what I'm spectin' now, every night, Miss Feely; and I e...! sleep out o' hearin', no ways." "Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?" "Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, He sen is his senger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for wher ar blessed child goes into the kingdom, they'll open t' so wide, we'll all get a look in at the glory, Miss Fee'y "Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell usual, to-night ?" "No; but she telled me, this morning, she was nearer thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Fee'v. the angels-it's the trumpet sound afore the break of day said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn. This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom tween ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt þör door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the ente randa. She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn. felt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually brigh cheerful that afternoon, and had sat raised in her best looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, designated the friends to whom she would have them gr and her manner was more animated, and her voice more ta"." than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like he former self than ever she had done since her sickness: when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophe "Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all; she is certa better;" and he had retired with a lighter heart in his b than he had had there for weeks. But at midnight-strange, mystic hour!-when the between the frail present and the eternal future grows th then came the messenger! There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who ster quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit ni night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of the r had discerned what experienced nurses significantly cs... 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 theethat 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 veranda, 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 bands. "O God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing "Oh, 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 earthy 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. 0. 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!" 1 The following beautiful and touching verses are from the pen of our gifted Whittier : Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her; For the golden locks of Eva Tears are wiped, and fetters fall, And the Lord is all in all. Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her. Gentle Eva, loving Eva, O, for faith Hke thine, sweet Eva, |