NEGRO LIFE IN AMERICA, 255

a. great misfortune to have feeling. 1'd rather have been made like
St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me so!’’

“ Sure, missis, Mas’r St. Clare is gettin’ thin asa shadder. They
say he don’t never eat nothin’,” said Mammy. “I know he don't
forget. Miss Eva; I know there couldn't nobody—dear, little,
blessed cretur !” she added, wiping her eyes.

“Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me,”’ said
Marie; “he hasn't spoke one word of sympathy, and he must
know how much more a mother feels than any man can.”

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” said Miss Ophelia.

« That's just what I think. I know just what I feel—nobody
else seems to. Evaused to, but she’s gone !” and Marie lay back
on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in
whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it
never had in possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to survey
only to pick flaws in it; but, once fairly away, there was no end
to her valuation of it.

While this conversation was taking place in the parlour, another
was going on in St. Clare’s library. J

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, had
seen him go to his library, some hours before; and, after vainly
waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to make an errand
in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on his lounge, at the further
end of the room. He was lying on his face, with Eva's Bible open
before him, at a little distance. 'Tom walked up, and stood by the
sofa. He hesitated ; and, while he was hesitating, St. Clare sud-
denly raised himself up. The honest face, so full of grief, and
with such an imploring expression of affection and sympathy,
struck his master. He laid his hand on Tom’s, and bowed down
his forehead on it.

“© Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg-shell.”

“T know it, masr—I know it,” said Tom. ‘ But oh, if mast
could only look up—up where our dear Miss Eva is—up to the
dear Lord Jesus !”

“Ah, Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don’t see any-
thing when I do. I wish I could.”

Tom sighed heavily.

“It seems to be given to children, and poor honest fellows like
you, to see what we can’t,” said St. Clare. ‘“ How comes it ?”

“Thou hast ‘hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto
babes,’ ” murmured Tom; ‘“ ‘even so, Father, for it seemed good
in thy sight.’”

“Tom, I don’t believe—I can’t believe ; I’ve got the habit of .
doubting,” said St. Clare. ‘I want to believe this Bible, and I
can't.” .

‘Dear mas’r, pray to the good Lord—* Lord, I believe; help
thou my unbelief.’ ”’