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vine love; for an old oracle hath thus written,- “He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.” Tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace. But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of “What is to be done next?” It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning robes, and sur- rounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and inspected sam- ples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent terrors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling, tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands they were left. All knew, very well, that the indulgences which had been accorded to them were not from their mistress, but from their master; and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen between them and every tyran- nous infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise. It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia, busied one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her hair in disor- der, and her eyes swelled with crying. “O Miss Feely,” she said, falling on her knees, and catching the skirt of her dress, “do, do go to Miss Marie for me! do plead for me! She’s goin’ to send me out to be whipped,- look there!” And she handed to Miss Ophelia a paper. |