were hiding from his
sight.

Nor was it!--not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright, immortal
form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day of the Lord Jesus!

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the place which
should know her no more; and Marie's room was darkened, and she lay on
the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief, and calling every
moment for the attentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no
time to cry,--why should they? the grief was _her_ grief, and she was
fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would feel it as she
did.

"St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said; "he didn't sympathize with
her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and unfeeling
he was, when he must know how she suffered."

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many of the
servants really thought that Missis was the principal sufferer in the
case, especially as Marie began to have hysterical spasms, and sent for
the doctor, and at last declared herself dying; and, in the running and
scampering, and bringing up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and
chafing, and fussing, that ensued, there was quite a diversion.

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew him to his
master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully and sadly; and
when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eva's room, holding
before his eyes her little open Bible, though seeing no letter or word
of what was in it, there was more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed,
tearless eye, than in all Marie's moans and lamentations.

In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the city;
Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for another scene, to
change the current of his thoughts. So they left the house and garden,
with its little grave, and came back to New Orleans; and St. Clare
walked the streets busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart
with hurry and bustle, and change of place; and people who saw him in
the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the weed
on his hat; for there he was, smiling and talking, and reading the
newspaper, and speculating on politics, and attending to business
matters; and who could see that all this smiling outside was but a
hollowed shell over a heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre?

"Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss Ophelia, in a
complaining tone. "