“On some fond breast the parting soul relies,”

and the minister of religion, in addition to the sympathetic nature which we have a right to demand in him, has trained himself to the art of entering into the feelings of others.

The reader must pardon this digression, which introduces the visit of the Reverend Chauncy Fairweather to Elsie Veneer.  It was mentioned to her that he would like to call and see how she was, and she consented,—­not with much apparent interest, for she had reasons of her own for not feeling any very deep conviction of his sympathy for persons in sorrow.  But he came, and worked the conversation round to religion, and confused her with his hybrid notions, half made up of what he had been believing and teaching all his life, and half of the new doctrines which he had veneered upon the surface of his old belief.  He got so far as to make a prayer with her,—­a cool, well-guarded prayer, which compromised his faith as little as possible, and which, if devotion were a game played against Providence, might have been considered a cautious and sagacious move.

When he had gone, Elsie called Old Sophy to her.

“Sophy,” she said, “don’t let them send that cold hearted man to me any more.  If your old minister comes—­to see you, I should like to hear him talk.  He looks as if he cared for everybody, and would care for me.  And, Sophy, if I should die one of these days, I should like to have that old minister come and say whatever is to be said over me.  It would comfort Dudley more, I know, than to have that hard man here, when you’re in trouble, for some of you will be sorry when I’m gone,—­won’t you, Sophy?”

The poor old black woman could not stand this question.  The cold minister had frozen Elsie until she felt as if nobody cared for her or would regret her,—­and her question had betrayed this momentary feeling.

“Don’ talk so! don’ talk so, darlin’!” she cried, passionately.  “When you go, Ol’ Sophy’ll go; ‘n’ where you go, Ol’ Sophy’ll go:  ‘n’ we’ll both go t’ th’ place where th’ Lord takes care of all his children, whether their faces are white or black.  Oh, darlin’, darlin’! if th’ Lord should let me die firs’, you shall fin’ all ready for you when you come after me.  On’y don’ go ‘n’ leave poor Ol’ Sophy all ‘lone in th’ world!”

Helen came in at this moment and quieted the old woman with a look.  Such scenes were just what were most dangerous, in the state in which Elsie was lying:  but that is one of the ways in which an affectionate friend sometimes unconsciously wears out the life which a hired nurse, thinking of nothing but her regular duties and her wages, would have spared from all emotional fatigue.

The change which had come over Elsie’s disposition was itself the cause of new excitements.  How was it possible that her father could keep away from her, now that she was coming back to the nature and the very look of her mother, the bride of his youth?  How was it possible to refuse her, when she said to Old Sophy, that she should like to have her minister come in and sit by her, even though his presence might perhaps prove a new source of excitement?