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There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his buttonholes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gayly laughing, was hanging a wreath of r- oses round his neck; and then she sat down on his knee, like a chip-sparrow, still laughing. “O, Tom, you look so funny!” Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to be enjoy- ing the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air. “How can you let her!” said Miss Ophelia. “Why not?” said St. Clare. “Why, I don’t know, it seems so dreadful.” “You would think no harm in a child’s caressing a large dog, even if he was black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is immortal you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what Christianity ought to do,- obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was with you than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you don’t want to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would send them to Af- |