ie in her own, and they walked together
up the stairway. "You must not be frightened at his appearance," she
remarked, tearfully, "he is greatly changed."

Little Birdie only shook her head--her heart seemed too full for
speech--and she stepped on a little faster, keeping her hand pressed on her
breast all the while.

When they reached the door, Emily was about to open it, but her companion
stopped her, by saying: "Wait a moment--stop! How my heart beats--it almost
suffocates me." They paused for a few moments to permit little Birdie to
recover from her agitation, then throwing open the door they advanced into
the room.

"Clarence!" said his sister. He did not answer; he was looking down into
the garden. She approached nearer, and gently laying her hand on his
shoulder, said, "Here is your little Birdie, Clarence." He neither moved
nor spoke.

"Clarence!" cried she, louder. No answer. She touched his face--it was
warm. "He's fainted!" exclaimed she; and, ringing the bell violently, she
screamed for help. Her husband and the nurse rushed into the room; then
came Aunt Ada and Mr. Bates. They bathed his temples, held strong salts to
his nostrils--still he did not revive. Finally, the nurse opened his bosom
and placed her hand upon his heart. _It was still--quite still_: Clarence
was dead!

At first they could not believe it. "Let me speak to him," exclaimed little
Birdie, distractedly; "he will hear my voice, and answer. Clarence!
Clarence!" she cried. All in vain--all in vain. Clarence was dead!

They gently bore her away. That dull, cold look came back again upon her
face, and left it never more in life. She walked about mournfully for a few
years, pressing her hand upon her heart; and then passed away to join her
lover, where distinctions in race or colour are unknown, and where the
prejudices of earth cannot mar their happiness.

Our tale is now soon finished. They buried Clarence beside his parents;
coloured people followed him to his last home, and wept over his grave. Of
all the many whites that he had known, Aunt Ada and Mr. Balch were the only
ones that mingled their tears with those who listened to the solemn words
of Father Banks, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

We, too, Clarence, cast a tear upon thy tomb--poor victim of prejudice to
thy colour! and deem thee better off resting upon thy cold pillow of earth,
than battling with that malignant sentiment that persecuted thee, and has
crushed energy, hope