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Show 84 USCLE TOM'S CADIN: OH, selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her. for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother cout'd not do wrong. 11hcrc was something ::tbout her tha.t Eva never could make out; and she always smoothed it over with thinking that, after all, it was m.amma., and she loved her very dearly indeed. She felt, too, f01· those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was as daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize; hut Eva was an uncommonly ma.turc child, and the things that she had witnessed of tho evils of tho system under which they wore Ji 1•ing had fallon, 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 fmmo. "Uncle Tom," she said, one da.y, when she was reading to her friend, " I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for us." '( Why, Miss Eva 1" '' Because I 'vc 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 tho 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 bo glad to die, if my dying could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I could," said tho child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his. Tom looked at the child with awe; and when she, hearing LIFE AMONQ TIIE LOWLY. 85 her father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyos many times, as he looked after her. " It 's jest no usc try in' to keep 1\'liss Eva here," he said to Mammy, whom he met a moment after. "She's got tho Lord's mark in her forehead." "Ab, yes, yes," said lUammy, raising her hands; "I've allers sa.id so. She wasn't never like a cl1ild that 's to live -there was allers something deep in her eyes. I 've told ?!'lissis so, many the time ; it 's a comin' true,- we all sees it, - dear, little, blessed lamb ! " E,,, came tripping up the verandah stops 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 tho 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 groat while. I want to say them now, before I get weaker." St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. Sho laid her head on his bosom, and said, "It's all no .use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The hme IS commg that I am going to leave you. I am gomg, and never to come back! " and Eva sobbed. " 0 , now, my dear little Era!" said St. Clare, trembling VOT •. JT. 8 |