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Show 122 UNCLE '£OM'S CABIN : OH, the Lord's will dono, and be put jest whore the Lord wants to put me. I know it couldn't come from me, cause I 's a. poor, complainin' crctur; it comes from tho Lord; and I know lie's willin' to do for Mas'r." Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. Clare leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung tho hard, faithful, black hand. " Tom, you love me," he said. "I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see Mas'r a Christian." " Poor, foolish boy ! " said St. Clare, half-raising himself. " I 'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like yours.'' "0, Mas'r, dcre 's more than me loves you,- the blessed Lord Jesus loves you." " How do you know tl1at, Tom? " said St. Clare. "Feels it in my soul. 0, Mas'r! 'the love of Christ, that passeth knowledge.' " " Singular ! " said St. Clare, turning away, "that tho story of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affect people so yet. But he was no man/' he added, suddenly. "No man ever had such long and Iivina power! 0, that I could believe what my mother taught m:, and pray as I did when I was a boy ! " " If :Mas'r pleases," said Tom, "Miss Eva used to read this so beautifully. I wish Mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't get no readin', hardly, now M:.iss Eva's gone." The chapter was the eleventh of John,- the touching account of the raising of Lazarus. St. Claro read it aloud often pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused b; the pathos of tho story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped LIFJ:: AMOYO 'l'HE LOWLY. 123 hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adoration, on his quiet £'lee. "~rom," said his :Master, "this is all real to you!" II I can jest fairly see it, :Mas'r," said rrom. ((I wish I had your eyes, ~I.'om." n I wish, to the dear Lord, :Mas'r had ! '' (/But, '11om, you know that I have a great deal more knowledge than you; what if I should toll you that I don't believe this Bible? " "0, ·Mas'r!" said Tom, holding up his hands, with a deprecating gesture. u w·ould n't it shake your faith some, rrom 1" "Not a grain/' saicl'.rom. "\Vhy, '11om, you must know I know the most." " 0, ~fas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes? But ~ias'r wasn't in earnest, for sartin, now?" said Tom, anxiously. "No, 'fom, I wa.s not. I don't disbelieve, and I think thoro is reason to believe; and still I don't. It's a troublesome bad habit I 'vc got, Torn." "If ~ia.-;'r would only pray ! " "How do you know I don't, ~rom?" ''Docs 1\-Ins'r? '' n I would, ~rom, if there was anybody there when I pmy; but it's all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, '11om, you pr::ty, now, and show me how." Tom's heart was full; he poured it out in prayer, like waters that have been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough; Tom thought there was somebody to hear, whether there were or not. In f.'lct, St. Clare felt himself borne, on tho tide of his faith and fool ing, almost to tho gates of that |