So much are people the slave of their eye and ear； that many of the servants really thought that Missis was the principal sufferer in the case； especially as Marie began to have hysterical spasms； and sent for the doctor； and at last declared herself dying； and； in the running and scampering； and bringing up hot bottles； and heating of flannels； and chafing； and fussing； that ensued； there was quite a diversion。
Tom； however； had a feeling at his own heart； that drew him to his master。 He followed him wherever he walked； wistfully and sadly； and when he saw him sitting； so pale and quiet； in Eva’s room； holding before his eyes her little open Bible； though seeing no letter or word of what was in it； there was more sorrow to Tom in that still； fixed； tearless eye； than in all Marie’s moans and lamentations。
In a few days the St。 Clare family were back again in the city； Augustine； with the restlessness of grief； longing for another scene； to change the current of his thoughts。 So they left the house and garden； with its little grave； and came back to New Orleans； and St。 Clare walked the streets busily； and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry and bustle； and change of place； and people who saw him in the street； or met him at the cafe； knew of his loss only by the weed on his hat； for there he was； smiling and talking； and reading the newspaper； and speculating on politics； and attending to business matters； and who could see that all this smiling outside was but a hollowed shell over a heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre？
“Mr。 St。 Clare is a singular man；” said Marie to Miss Ophelia； in a complaining tone。 “I used to think； if there was anything in the world he did love； it was our dear little Eva； but he seems to be forgetting her very easily。 I cannot ever get him to talk about her。 I really did think he would show more feeling！”
“Still waters run deepest； they used to tell me；” said Miss Ophelia； oracularly。
“O； I don’t believe in such things； it’s all talk。 If people have feeling； they will show it；—they can’t help it； but； then； it’s a great misfortune to have feeling。 I’d rather have been made like St。 Clare。 My feelings prey upon me so！”
“Sure； Missis； Mas’r St。 Clare is gettin’ thin as a shader。 They say； he don’t never eat nothin’；” said Mammy。 “I know he don’t forget Miss Eva； I know there couldn’t nobody；—dear； little； blessed cretur！” she added； wiping her eyes。
“Well； at all events； he has no consideration for me；” said Marie； “he hasn’t spoken one word of sympathy； and he must know how much more a mother feels than any man can。”
“The heart knoweth its own bitterness；” said Miss Ophelia； gravely。
“That’s just what I think。 I know just what I feel；—nobody else seems to。 Eva used to； but she is gone！” and Marie lay back on her lounge； and began to sob disconsolately。
Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals； in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it never had in possession。 Whatever she had； she seemed to survey only to pick flaws in it； but； once fairly away； there was no end to her valuation of it。
While this conversation was taking place in the parlor another was going on in St。 Clare’s library。
Tom； who was always uneasily following his master about； had seen him go to his library； some hours before； and； after vainly waiting for him to come out； determined； at last； to make an errand in。 He entered softly。 St。 Clare lay on his lounge； at the further end of the room。 He was lying on his face； with Eva’s Bible open before him； at a little distance。 Tom walked up； and stood by the sofa。 He hesitated； and； while he was hesitating； St。 Clare suddenly raised himself up。 The honest face； so full of grief； and with such an imploring expression of affection and sympathy； struck his master。 He laid his hand on Tom’s； and bowed down his forehead on it。
“O； Tom； my boy； the whole world is as empty as an egg…shell。”
“I know it； Mas’r；—I know it；” said Tom； “but； oh； if Mas’r could only look up；—up where our dear Miss Eva is；—up to the dear Lord Jesus！”
“Ah； Tom！ I do look up； but the trouble is； I don’t see anything； when I do； I wish I could。”
Tom sighed heavily。
“It seems to be given to children； and poor； honest fellows； like you； to see what we can’t；” said St。 Clare。 “How comes it？”
“Thou has ‘hid from the wise and prudent； and revealed unto babes；’” murmured Tom； “‘even so； Father； for so it seemed good in thy sight。’”
“Tom； I don’t believe；—I can’t believe；—I’ve got the habit of doubting；” said St。 Clare。 “I want to believe this Bible；—and I can’t。”
“Dear Mas’r； pray to the good Lord；—‘Lord； I believe； help thou my unbelief。’”
“Who knows anything about anything？” said St。 Clare； his eyes wandering dreamily； and speaking to himself。 “Was all that beautiful love and faith only one of the ever…shifting phases of human feeling； having nothing real to rest on； passing away with the little breath？ And is there no more Eva；—no heaven；—no Christ；—nothing？”
“O； dear Mas’r； there is！ I know it； I’m sure of it；” said Tom； falling on his knees。 “Do； do； dear Mas’r； believe it！”
“How do you know there’s any Christ； Tom！ You never saw the Lord。”
“Felt Him in my soul； Mas’r；—feel Him now！ O； Mas’r； when I was sold away from my old woman and the children； I was jest a’most broke up。 I felt as if there warn’t nothin’ left； and then the good Lord； he stood by me； and he says； ‘Fear not； Tom；’ and he brings light and joy in a poor feller’s soul；—makes all peace； and I ’s so happy； and loves everybody； and feels willin’ jest to be the Lord’s； and have the Lord’s will done； and be put jest where the Lord wants to put me。 I know it couldn’t come from me； cause I ’s a poor； complainin’cretur； it comes from the Lord； and I know He’s willin’ to do for Mas’r。”
Tom spoke with fast…running tears and choking voice。 St。 Clare leaned his head on his shoulder； and wrung the hard； faithful； black hand。
“Tom； you love me；” he said。
“I ’s willin’ to lay down my life； this blessed day； to see Mas’r a Christian。”
“Poor； foolish boy！” said St。 Clare； half…raising himself。 “I’m not worth the love of one good； honest heart； like yours。”
“O； Mas’r； dere’s more than me loves you；—the blessed Lord Jesus loves you。”
“How do you know that Tom？” said St。 Clare。
“Feels it in my soul。 O； Mas’r！ ‘the love of Christ； that passeth knowledge。’”
“Singular！” said St。 Clare； turning away； “that the story of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affect people so yet。 But he was no man；” he added； suddenly。 “No man ever had such long and living power！ O； that I could believe what my mother taught me； and pray as I did when I was a boy！”
“If Mas’r pleases；” said Tom； “Miss Eva used to read this so beautifully。 I wish Mas’r’d be so good as read it。 Don’t get no readin’； hardly； now Miss Eva’s gone。”
The chapter was the eleventh of John；—the touching acomount of the raising of Lazarus； St。 Clare read it aloud； often pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused by the pathos of the story。 Tom knelt b