“Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire:  for I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat:  I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:  I was a stranger, an ye took me not in:  naked, and ye clothed me not:  I was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.  Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?  Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me.”

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice,—­the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words in his mind.

“Tom,” he said, “these folks that get such hard measure seem to have been doing just what I have,—­living good, easy, respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were hungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison.”

Tom did not answer.

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice that the teabell had rung, before he could get his attention.

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time.  After tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlor almost in silence.

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain, and was soon sound asleep.  Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with her knitting.  St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement with the AEolian accompaniment.  He seemed in a deep reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music.  After a little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it over.

“There,” he said to Miss Ophelia, “this was one of my mother’s books,—­and here is her handwriting,—­come and look at it.  She copied and arranged this from Mozart’s Requiem.”  Miss Ophelia came accordingly.

“It was something she used to sing often,” said St. Clare.  “I think I can hear her now.”

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old Latin piece, the “Dies Irae.”

Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly.  He did not understand the words, of course; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts.  Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning of the beautiful words: 

     Recordare Jesu pie
     Quod sum causa tuar viae
     Ne me perdas, illa die
     Querens me sedisti lassus
     Redemisti crucem passus
     Tantus laor non sit cassus.*

     * These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated: