ch once made that cold heart beat so warmly!

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he
ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the
sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about
his master; for in that hour, when he had poured forth his prayer
into the bosom of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness
and assurance springing up within himself. In the depths of his own
affectionate nature, he felt able to perceive something of the fulness
of Divine love; for an old oracle hath thus written,--"He that dwelleth
in love dwelleth in God, and God in him." Tom hoped and trusted, and was
at peace.

But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and
prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of
every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of "What is to
be done next?"

It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes, and
surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and
inspected samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who
began to turn her thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent
terrors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling,
tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands they were left. All
knew, very well, that the indulgences which had been accorded to them
were not from their mistress, but from their master; and that, now he
was gone, there would be no screen between them and every tyrannous
infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise.

It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia, busied
one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened
it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon, whom we have before
often noticed, her hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with crying.

"O, Miss Feeley," she said, falling on her knees, and catching the skirt
of her dress, "_do, do go_ to Miss Marie for me! do plead for me! She's
goin' to send me out to be whipped--look there!" And she handed to Miss
Ophelia a paper.

It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to the master
of a whipping-establishment to give the bearer fifteen lashes.

"What have you been doing?" said Miss Ophelia.

"You know, Miss Feely, I've got such a bad temper; it's very bad of me.
I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she slapped my face; and I spoke
out before