Poor Mammy’s heart yearned towards her darling; but she found no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the state of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to rest; and, of course, it was against her principles to let any one else rest.  Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handkerchief, to see what the noise was in Eva’s room, to let down a curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark; and, in the daytime, when she longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, Marie seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy anywhere and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person; so that stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all she could obtain.

“I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, now,” she would say, “feeble as I am, and with the whole care and nursing of that dear child upon me.”

“Indeed, my dear,” said St. Clare, “I thought our cousin relieved you of that.”

“You talk like a man, St. Clare,—­just as if a mother could be relieved of the care of a child in that state; but, then, it’s all alike,—­no one ever knows what I feel!  I can’t throw things off, as you do.”

St. Clare smiled.  You must excuse him, he couldn’t help it,—­for St. Clare could smile yet.  For so bright and placid was the farewell voyage of the little spirit,—­by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the small bark borne towards the heavenly shores,—­that it was impossible to realize that it was death that was approaching.  The child felt no pain,—­only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing; and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one could not resist the soothing influence of that air of innocence and peace which seemed to breathe around her.  St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him.  It was not hope,—­that was impossible; it was not resignation; it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to think of no future.  It was like that hush of spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, and the last lingering flowers by the brook; and we joy in it all the more, because we know that soon it will all pass away.

The friend who knew most of Eva’s own imaginings and foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom.  To him she said what she would not disturb her father by saying.  To him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever.

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call.

“Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, for?” said Miss Ophelia.  “I thought you was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way.”