a season here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear it upward with them in their homeward flight.  When you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye,—­when the little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children,—­hope not to retain that child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks out from its eyes.

Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling!  Thou are passing away; but they that love thee dearest know it not.

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call from Miss Ophelia.

“Eva—­Eva!—­why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn’t be out there!”

Eva and Tom hastened in.

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing.  She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born of fever, deceive her.

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless good-humor.

“Don’t be croaking, Cousin,—­I hate it!” he would say; “don’t you see that the child is only growing.  Children always lose strength when they grow fast.”

“But she has that cough!”

“O! nonsense of that cough!—­it is not anything.  She has taken a little cold, perhaps.”

“Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and Maria Sanders.”

“O! stop these hobgoblin’ nurse legends.  You old hands got so wise, that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin at hand.  Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don’t let her play too hard, and she’ll do well enough.”

So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless.  He watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he repeated over that “the child was quite well”—­that there wasn’t anything in that cough,—­it was only some little stomach affection, such as children often had.  But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or strengthening mixture,—­“not,” he said, “that the child needed it, but then it would not do her any harm.”

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child’s mind and feelings.  While still retaining all a child’s fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration.  At such times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.