Sooner or later my darkling dews
Catch the white spark in their silent ooze.

Never a ray shall part the gloom
That wraps me round in the kindly tomb;
Peace shall be perfect for lip and brow
Sooner or later,--oh, why not now!

Little of this wobegone song touched Flor even enough to let her know
there was some one in the world more wretched than herself. The last
word, the last phrase, rang in her ears like a command,--now, why not
now?--waiting for times and chances, hesitating, delaying, since go she
must,--then why not now? What more did she need than a board and two
sticks? Here they were in plenty. And with that, a bright thought, a
fortunate memory,--the old abandoned scow! And if, after all, she
failed, and went to watery death, did not the singer tell in how little
time all would be quiet and oblivious once again? Oh, why not now?

Perhaps Flor would never have been entirely subjected to this state of
mind but for an injury that she had suffered. Miss Emma had been
rendered ill by the night's exposure in the swamp. In consequence of her
complicity in this crime, Flor had been excluded from her young
mistress's room during her indisposition, and ever since had not only
been deprived of her companionship, but had not even been allowed to
look upon her from a distance. A single week of that made life a desert.
Too proud to complain, Flor saw in this the future, and so recognized,
it may be, that it would be easy to part from the place, having already
parted with Miss Emma. She drew nearer to the group now, and stood there
long, while they wondered at her, gazing into the fire, her head fallen
upon her breast. There was only one thing more to do: her little
squirrel; nothing but her front of battle had kept it safe this many a
day; were she once gone, it would be at the mercy of the first gridiron.
Nobody saw the tears, in the dark and the distance, fast falling over
the tiny sacrifice; but the cook might have guessed at them, when Flor
brought her last offering, and begged that it might be prepared and
taken in to Miss Emma.

How many things there were to do that evening! One wanted water, and
another wanted towels, and a third wanted everything there was to want.
Last of all, little Pluto came running with his unkindled torch,--Mas'r
Henry wanted dancing.

Flor rummaged for her castanets, her tambourine, her ankle-rings,--they
had all been thrown hither and thither,--and at length, as Pl