e wicked planter, because Tom was black.

When George entered the shed where Tom lay, he felt his head giddy and
his heart sick.

"Is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him. "Uncle Tom, my poor,
poor old friend!"

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He smiled,
and said--

"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are."

Tears fell from the young man's eyes as he bent over his poor friend.

"O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake--do speak once more! Look up. Here's Mas'r
George--your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know me?"

"Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble
voice--"Mas'r George!" He looked bewildered.

Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed
and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and
tears ran down the cheeks.

"Bless the Lord' it is--it is--it's all I wanted! They haven't forgot
me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die
content! Bless the Lord, O my soul!"

He began to draw his breath with long, deep aspirations; and his broad
chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a
conqueror.

"Who--who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" he said, in a
voice that contended with mortal weakness; and with a smile he fell
asleep.

Beyond the boundaries of the plantation George had noticed a dry, sandy
knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made a grave for poor Tom.

"Shall we take off the cloak, mas'r?" said the negroes, when the grave
was ready.

"No, no; bury it with him. It's all I can give you now, poor Tom, and
you shall have it."

They laid him in; and the men shovelled away silently. They banked it
up, and laid green turf over it.

"You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter dollar into the hand
of each. They lingered about, however.

"If young mas'r would please buy us," said one.

"We'd serve him so faithful!" said the other. "Do, mas'r, buy us,
please!"

"I can't--I can't," said George, with difficulty, motioning them off;
"it's impossible!"

The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.

"Witness, eternal God," said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor
friend--"O, witness that, from this hour, I will do _what one man can_
to drive out this curse of slavery from my land!"

There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of poor Tom. He
needs none. His Lor