he AEolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep
reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a little, he
opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves were
yellow with age, and began turning it over.

"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother's
books,--and here is her handwriting,--come and look at it. She copied
and arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly.

"It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. "I think I
can hear her now."

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old Latin
piece, the "Dies Irae."

Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the sound
to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not understand the
words, of course; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect
him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts.
Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning of
the beautiful words:

Recordare Jesu pie
Quod sum causa tuar viae
Ne me perdas, illa die
Querens me sedisti lassus
Redemisti crucem passus
Tantus laor non sit cassus.*

* These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated:

Think, O Jesus, for what reason
Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose, in that dread season;
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross thy soul death tasted,
Let not all these toils be wasted.
[Mrs. Stowe's note.]

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words; for
the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear his
mother's voice leading his. Voice and instrument seemed both living, and
threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart
first conceived as his own dying requiem.

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his hand a
few moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.

"What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!" said he,--"a
righting of all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of all moral problems, by
an unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed, a wonderful image."

"It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.

"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare stopping,
thoughtfully. "I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter in
Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck with
it. One sh