So Eva grew daily thinner and weaker, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Ophelia
more and more sad and anxious.

But at last she became so unwell, that even Mr. St. Clare had to own
that something was wrong, and the doctor was sent for.

In a week or two she was very much better. Once more she ran about
playing and laughing, and her father was delighted. Only Miss Ophelia
and the doctor sighed and shook their heads. And little Eva herself
knew; but she was not troubled. She knew she was going to God.

'Papa' she said one day, 'there are some things I want to say to you. I
want to say them now while I am able.'

She seated herself on his knee, and laid her head on his shoulder.

'It is all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time is
coming when I am going to leave you. I am going, never to come back',
and Eva sobbed.

'Eva, darling, don't say such things; you are better you know.'

'No, papa, I am not any better. I know it quite well, and I am going
soon.'

'And I want to go,' she went on, 'only I don't want to leave you--it
almost breaks my heart.'

'Don't, Eva, don't talk so. What makes you so sad?'