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this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted servants who had clustered about the doors and windows of the verandah. “Now,” said the physician, “we must turn all these creatures out; all depends on his being kept quiet.” St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed beings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apartment. “Poor crea- tures!” he said, and an expression of bitter self-reproach passed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along on the floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss Ophelia’s urgent representations, that their master’s safety de- pended on their stillness and obedience. St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while, he laid his hand on Tom’s, who was kneeling beside him, and said, “Tom! poor fellow!” “What, Mas’r?” said Tom, earnestly. “I am dying,” said St. Clare, pressing his hand; “pray!” “If you would like a clergyman-” said the physician. St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more earnestly, “Pray!” |