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“No!” said Tom, firmly. “No! good never comes of wickedness. I’d sooner chop my right hand off!” “Then I shall do it,” said Cassy, turning. “O Misse Cassy!” said Tom, throwing himself before her, “for the dear Lord’s sake that died for ye, don’t sell your precious soul to the devil, that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord hasn’t called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time.” “Wait!” said Cassy. “Haven’t I waited?- waited till my head is dizzy and my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What has he made hundreds of poor creatures suffer? Isn’t he wringing the life-blood out of you? I’m called on; they call me! His time’s come, and I’ll have his heart’s blood!” “No, no, no!” said Tom, holding her small hands, which were clenched with spasmodic violence. “No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye mustn’t do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but His own, and that He poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to follow His steps, and love our enemies.” “Love!” said Cassy, with a fierce glare; “love such enemies. It isn’t in flesh and blood.” “No, Misse, it isn’t,” said Tom, looking up; “but He gives it to us, and that’s the victory. When we can love and pray over all, and through all, the battle’s past, and the victory’s come,- glory be to God!” And, with streaming eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to heaven. |