“No, no, Mas’r! ‘tan’t that,—­it’s bein’ a freeman! that’s what I’m joyin’ for.”

“Why, Tom, don’t you think, for your own part, you’ve been better off than to be free?”

“No, indeed, Mas’r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash of energy.  “No, indeed!”

“Why, Tom, you couldn’t possibly have earned, by your work, such clothes and such living as I have given you.”

“Knows all that, Mas’r St. Clare; Mas’r’s been too good; but, Mas’r, I’d rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have ’em mine, than have the best, and have ’em any man’s else,—­I had so, Mas’r; I think it’s natur, Mas’r.”

“I suppose so, Tom, and you’ll be going off and leaving me, in a month or so,” he added, rather discontentedly.  “Though why you shouldn’t, no mortal knows,” he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the floor.

“Not while Mas’r is in trouble,” said Tom.  “I’ll stay with Mas’r as long as he wants me,—­so as I can be any use.”

“Not while I’m in trouble, Tom?” said St. Clare, looking sadly out of the window. . . .  “And when will my trouble be over?”

“When Mas’r St. Clare’s a Christian,” said Tom.

“And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?” said St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on Tom’s shoulder.  “Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy!  I won’t keep you till that day.  Go home to your wife and children, and give my love to all.”

“I ’s faith to believe that day will come,” said Tom, earnestly, and with tears in his eyes; “the Lord has a work for Mas’r.”

“A work, hey?” said St. Clare, “well, now, Tom, give me your views on what sort of a work it is;—­let’s hear.”

“Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; and Mas’r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,—­how much he might do for the Lord!”

“Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him,” said St. Clare, smiling.

“We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs,” said Tom.

“Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare swear,” said St. Clare.

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some visitors.

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great faculty of making everybody unhappy when she was, her immediate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother.  Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken.  She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in her ministrations of her mistress than usual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.