“Dear papa,” said the child, laying her
burning cheek against his, “how I wish we could
go together!”
“Where, dearest?” said St. Clare.
“To our Saviour’s home; it’s so
sweet and peaceful there—it is all so loving
there!” The child spoke unconsciously, as of
a place where she had often been. “Don’t
you want to go, papa?” she said.
St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent.
“You will come to me,” said the child,
speaking in a voice of calm certainty which she often
used unconsciously.
“I shall come after you. I shall not forget
you.”
The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them
deeper and deeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding
the little frail form to his bosom. He saw no
more the deep eyes, but the voice came over him as
a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment vision,
his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes:
his mother’s prayers and hymns; his own early
yearnings and aspirings for good; and, between them
and this hour, years of worldliness and scepticism,
and what man calls respectable living. We can
think much, very much, in a moment. St.
Clare saw and felt many things, but spoke nothing;
and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her bed-room;
and, when she was prepared for rest; he sent away the
attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to
her till she was asleep.
The Little Evangelist
It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched
on a bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself
with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite
the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded,
under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outrages
of the mosquitos, and languidly holding in her hand
an elegantly bound prayer-book. She was holding
it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she had
been reading it,—though, in fact, she had
been only taking a succession of short naps, with
it open in her hand.
Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted
up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance,
had gone out, with Tom as driver, to attend it; and
Eva had accompanied them.
“I say, Augustine,” said Marie after dozing
a while, “I must send to the city after my old
Doctor Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the complaint
of the heart.”
“Well; why need you send for him? This
doctor that attends Eva seems skilful.”
“I would not trust him in a critical case,”
said Marie; “and I think I may say mine is becoming
so! I’ve been thinking of it, these two
or three nights past; I have such distressing pains,
and such strange feelings.”
“O, Marie, you are blue; I don’t believe
it’s heart complaint.”
“I dare say you don’t,” said
Marie; “I was prepared to expect that.
You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or has the
least thing the matter with her; but you never think
of me.”
