“I say Tom!” said St. Clare’s voice,
coming in the door at this moment.
Tom and Eva both started.
“What’s here?” said St. Clare, coming
up and looking at the slate.
“O, it’s Tom’s letter. I’m
helping him to write it,” said Eva; “isn’t
it nice?”
“I wouldn’t discourage either of you,”
said St. Clare, “but I rather think, Tom, you’d
better get me to write your letter for you. I’ll
do it, when I come home from my ride.”
“It’s very important he should write,”
said Eva, “because his mistress is going to
send down money to redeem him, you know, papa; he told
me they told him so.”
St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably
only one of those things which good-natured owners
say to their servants, to alleviate their horror of
being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the
expectation thus excited. But he did not make
any audible comment upon it,—only ordered
Tom to get the horses out for a ride.
Tom’s letter was written in due form for him
that evening, and safely lodged in the post-office.
Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the
housekeeping line. It was universally agreed,
among all the household, from Dinah down to the youngest
urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly “curis,”—a
term by which a southern servant implies that his
or her betters don’t exactly suit them.
The higher circle in the family—to wit,
Adolph, Jane and Rosa—agreed that she was
no lady; ladies never keep working about as she did,—that
she had no air at all; and they were surprised
that she should be any relation of the St. Clares.
Even Marie declared that it was absolutely fatiguing
to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in
fact, Miss Ophelia’s industry was so incessant
as to lay some foundation for the complaint.
She sewed and stitched away, from daylight till dark,
with the energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate
urgency; and then, when the light faded, and the work
was folded away, with one turn out came the ever-ready
knitting-work, and there she was again, going on as
briskly as ever. It really was a labor to see
her.
Topsy
One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of
her domestic cares, St. Clare’s voice was heard,
calling her at the foot of the stairs.
“Come down here, Cousin, I’ve something
to show you.”
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming
down, with her sewing in her hand.
“I’ve made a purchase for your department,—see
here,” said St. Clare; and, with the word, he
pulled along a little negro girl, about eight or nine
years of age.
