Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life.  She was more softened, more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain.  She was more diligent in teaching Topsy,—­taught her mainly from the Bible,—­did not any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none.  She viewed her now through the softened medium that Eva’s hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal creature, whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and virtue.  Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and death of Eva did work a marked change in her.  The callous indifference was gone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good,—­a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again.

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom.

“What are you doing there, you limb?  You’ve been stealing something, I’ll be bound,” said the imperious little Rosa, who had been sent to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm.

“You go ’long, Miss Rosa!” said Topsy, pulling from her; “‘tan’t none o’ your business!”

“None o’ your sa’ce!” said Rosa, “I saw you hiding something,—­I know yer tricks,” and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for what she considered her rights.  The clamor and confusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot.

“She’s been stealing!” said Rosa.

“I han’t, neither!” vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion.

“Give me that, whatever it is!” said Miss Ophelia, firmly.

Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.

Miss Ophelia turned it out.  There was a small book, which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that memorable day when she had taken her last farewell.

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral weeds.

“What did you wrap this round the book for?” said St. Clare, holding up the crape.

“Cause,—­cause,—­cause ’t was Miss Eva.  O, don’t take ’em away, please!” she said; and, sitting flat down on the floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently.

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,—­the little old stockings,—­black crape,—­text-book,—­fair, soft curl,—­and Topsy’s utter distress.

St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,