|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
|
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 ‘twas 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 stock- ing,-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, “Come, come,- don’t cry; you shall have them!” and, putting them together he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor. “I really think you can make something of that concern,” he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. “Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. You must try and do something with her.” |
