254 UNCLE TOM’s caBIN; OR,

immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day of
the Lord Jesus |

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the
Place which should know her no more; and Marie’s room was
darkened, and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncon-
trollable grief, and calling every moment for the attentions of all.
her servants. Of course, they had no time to cry—why should
they? the grief was her grief, and she was fully convinced that
nobody on earth did, could, or would fee] it as she did.

“St. Clare did not shed a tear,” she said; “ he didn't sympa-
thise with her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard.
hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how she suf.
fered.”

So muchare people the slave of their eye and ear, that many of
the servants really thought that missis was the principal sufferer
in the case, especially as Marie began to have hysterical spasms,
and sent for the doctor, and at last declared herself dying; and,
in the running and scampering, and bringing up hot bottles, and
heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing, that ensued, there
was quite a diversion.

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew him to
his master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully and
sadly; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eya’g
room, holding before hig eyes her little open Bible, though seeing
no letter or word of what was in it, there was more sorrow to Tom
in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all Marie’s moans and
lamentations.

garden, with its little grave, and came back to New Orleans ; and
St. Clare walked the Streets busily, and strove to fill up the chasm
in his heart with hurry and bustle, and change of place ; and
people who saw him in the street, or met him at the café, knew of
his loss only by the weed on his hat ; for there he was, smiling and
talking, and reading the newspaper, and speculating on politics,
and attending to business matters ; and who could see that all

anlbne outside was but a hollow shell over a heart that was a
dark and silent Sepulchre ?

“Mr. St. Clare is asingular man,” said Marie to Miss Ophelia,
in a complaining tone, “I used to think, if there was anything
in the world he did love, it was our dear little Eva; but he seems
to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot ever get him to talk
about her. I really did think he would show more feeling !”

“Still waters run deepest, they used to tel] me,” said Miss
Ophelia oracularly.

“Oh, I don’t believe in such things ; it’s all talk. If people
have feeling, they will show it—the y can't help it; but, then, it’s

eee