“It wouldn’t be the first time a little
child had been used to instruct an old disciple, if
it were so,” said St. Clare.
Death
Weep not for those whom
the veil of the tomb,
In life’s early
morning, hath hid from our eyes.*
* “Weep Not for
Those,” a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).
Eva’s bed-room was a spacious apartment, which,
like all the other robins in the house, opened on
to the broad verandah. The room communicated,
on one side, with her father and mother’s apartment;
on the other, with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia.
St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste, in
furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar
keeping with the character of her for whom it was
intended. The windows were hung with curtains
of rose-colored and white muslin, the floor was spread
with a matting which had been ordered in Paris, to
a pattern of his own device, having round it a border
of rose-buds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-flown
roses. The bedstead, chairs, and lounges, were
of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful
patterns. Over the head of the bed was an alabaster
bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel stood,
with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves.
From this depended, over the bed, light curtains of
rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying
that protection from mosquitos which is an indispensable
addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate.
The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with
cushions of rose-colored damask, while over them,
depending from the hands of sculptured figures, were
gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A
light, fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of
the room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape
of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled
with flowers. On this table lay Eva’s books
and little trinkets, with an elegantly wrought alabaster
writing-stand, which her father had supplied to her
when he saw her trying to improve herself in writing.
There was a fireplace in the room, and on the marble
mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette
of Jesus receiving little children, and on either
side marble vases, for which it was Tom’s pride
and delight to offer bouquets every morning. Two
or three exquisite paintings of children, in various
attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, the
eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood,
of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never
opened, in the morning light, without falling on something
which suggested to the heart soothing and beautiful
thoughts.
The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for
a little while was fast passing away; seldom and more
seldom her light footstep was heard in the verandah,
and oftener and oftener she was found reclined on a
little lounge by the open window, her large, deep eyes
fixed on the rising and falling waters of the lake.
