actually killed three
of them with only his naked fists, when a shot from a gun brought him
down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my feet. The poor
fellow looked up at me with manhood and despair both in his eye. I kept
back the dogs and the party, as they came pressing up, and claimed him
as my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them from shooting him, in
the flush of success; but I persisted in my bargain, and Alfred sold him
to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had him tamed
down as submissive and tractable as heart could desire."

"What in the world did you do to him?" said Marie.

"Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own room, had a
good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tended him myself, until
he got fairly on his feet again. And, in process of time, I had free
papers made out for him, and told him he might go where he liked."

"And did he go?" said Miss Ophelia.

"No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutely refused
to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow,--trusty and true as
steel. He embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a
child. He used to oversee my place on the lake, and did it capitally,
too. I lost him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life
for me. For I was sick, almost to death; and when, through the panic,
everybody else fled, Scipio worked for me like a giant, and actually
brought me back into life again. But, poor fellow! he was taken, right
after, and there was no saving him. I never felt anybody's loss more."

Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told the
story,--her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorbing
interest.

As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into
tears, and sobbed convulsively.

"Eva, dear child! what is the matter?" said St. Clare, as the child's
small frame trembled and shook with the violence of her feelings. "This
child," he added, "ought not to hear any of this kind of thing,--she's
nervous."

"No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself, suddenly,
with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. "I'm not
nervous, but these things _sink into my heart_."

"What do you mean, Eva?"

"I can't tell you, papa, I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps some day
I shall tell you."

"Well, think away, dear,--only don't cry and worry your papa," said St.
Clare, "L