expositions could have done. It had been his custom to get
the Bible read to him by his master's children, in particular
by young Master George; and, as they read, he would designate, by bold, strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the
passages which more particularly gratified his ear or affected
his heart. His Bible was thus marked through, from one end
to the other, with a variety of styles and designations; so he
could in a moment seize upon his favorite passages, without
the labor of spelling out what lay between them; and while
it lay there before him, every passage breathing of some old
home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible
seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the
promise of a future one.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He had with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together with a lady who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to have the little one especially under her charge.
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,—for she was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze,—nor was she one that, once seen, could be easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and aërial grace, such as one might dream of for some mythic and allegorical being. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust was
