wake new forms of
art, new styles of splendor; and the negro race, no longer despised
and trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth some of the latest and most
magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly they will, in their
gentleness, their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude to repose on a
superior mind and rest on a higher power, their childlike simplicity of
affection, and facility of forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit
the highest form of the peculiarly _Christian life_, and, perhaps, as
God chasteneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace
of affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdom which
he will set up, when every other kingdom has been tried, and failed; for
the first shall be last, and the last first.

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeously
dressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning, clasping a diamond bracelet
on her slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn't that, it was
something else; for Marie patronized good things, and she was going now,
in full force,--diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all,--to a
fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to
be very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so
airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her
like a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good and
very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast.
It was not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and
as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness and squareness, and
bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable
a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not the grace of God,
however,--that is quite another thing!

"Where's Eva?" said Marie.

"The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy."

And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader, and you
will hear, though Marie does not.

"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully."

"Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately. You don't need
to worry."

"Well, I'm glad you're going out; and here,"--and the little girl threw
her arms around her,--"Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette."

"What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss,
't wouldn't be proper, no ways."

"Why not? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always uses it for headache,
and i