ne it myself, only my arms are
so weak. Come along!"

"Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!" said Tom, firmly, stopping and
holding her back, as she was pressing forward.

"But think of all these poor creatures," said Cassy. "We might set them
all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and find an island, and live
by ourselves; I've heard of its being done. Any life is better than
this."

"No!" said Tom, firmly. "No! good never comes of wickedness. I'd sooner
chop my right hand off!"

"Then _I_ shall do it," said Cassy, turning.

"O, Misse Cassy!" said Tom, throwing himself before her, "for the dear
Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell your precious soul to the
devil, that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord hasn't
called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time."

"Wait!" said Cassy. "Haven't I waited?--waited till my head is dizzy and
my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What has he made hundreds of
poor creatures suffer? Isn't he wringing the life-blood out of you?
I'm called on; they call me! His time's come, and I'll have his heart's
blood!"

"No, no, no!" said Tom, holding her small hands, which were clenched
with spasmodic violence. "No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye mustn't do.
The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but his own, and that he
poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his
steps, and love our enemies."

"Love!" said Cassy, with a fierce glare; "love _such_ enemies! It isn't
in flesh and blood."

"No, Misse, it isn't," said Tom, looking up; "but _He_ gives it to us,
and that's the victory. When we can love and pray over all and through
all, the battle's past, and the victory's come,--glory be to God!"
And, with streaming eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to
heaven.

And this, oh Africa! latest called of nations,--called to the crown of
thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of agony,--this is to
be _thy_ victory; by this shalt thou reign with Christ when his kingdom
shall come on earth.

The deep fervor of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice, his
tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor woman. A
softness gathered over the lurid fires of her eye; she looked down, and
Tom could feel the relaxing muscles of her hands, as she said,

"Didn't I tell you that evil spirits followed me? O! Father Tom, I can't
pray,--I wish I could. I never have prayed since my children were sold!
What you say