and Eva, gayly laughing, was
hanging a wreath of roses round his neck; and then she sat down on his
knee, like a chip-sparrow, still laughing.

"O, Tom, you look so funny!"

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to be
enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted his
eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.

"How can you let her?" said Miss Ophelia.

"Why not?" said St. Clare.

"Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!"

"You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even if he
was black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is
immortal, you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among
some of you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of
virtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what Christianity
ought to do,--obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have
often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was with you
than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you
are indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you
don't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would send
them to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionary
or two to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compendiously.
Isn't that it?"

"Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, "there may be some
truth in this."

"What would the poor and lowly do, without children?" said St. Clare,
leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she tripped off, leading
Tom with her. "Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, now
is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and
Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little bits
of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom
that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the
Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few
enough of any other kind."

"It's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, "one might almost think you
were a _professor_, to hear you talk."

"A professor?" said St. Clare.

"Yes; a professor of religion."

"Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it; and, what is
worse, I'm afraid, not a _practiser_, either."

"What makes you talk so, then?"

"Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. "I believe Shakespeare
mak