flower-stalls for rare bouquets
for her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his pocket to
give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleased him most was
her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant approach, and her
childish questions,--"Well, Uncle Tom, what have you got for me today?"

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though a child, she
was a beautiful reader;--a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy, and
an instinctive sympathy with what's grand and noble, made her such a
reader of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read to
please her humble friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its
tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved it,
because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such
as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel.

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and the
Prophecies,--parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, and fervent
language, impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly of their
meaning;--and she and her simple friend, the old child and the young
one, felt just alike about it. All that they knew was, that they spoke
of a glory to be revealed,--a wondrous something yet to come, wherein
their soul rejoiced, yet knew not why; and though it be not so in the
physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be understood is not
always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trembling stranger, between
two dim eternities,--the eternal past, the eternal future. The light
shines only on a small space around her; therefore, she needs must yearn
towards the unknown; and the voices and shadowy movings which come to
her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one echoes and
answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic imagery are so many
talismans and gems inscribed with unknown hieroglyphics; she folds them
in her bosom, and expects to read them when she passes beyond the veil.

At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the
time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of
summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy
city, to seek the shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes.

St. Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light
verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens and
pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room opened on to a large ga