Finally, the nurse opened his bosom
and placed her hand upon his heart. _It was still--quite still_: Clarence
was dead!
At first they could not believe it. "Let me speak to him," exclaimed little
Birdie, distractedly; "he will hear my voice, and answer. Clarence!
Clarence!" she cried. All in vain--all in vain. Clarence was dead!
They gently bore her away. That dull, cold look came back again upon her
face, and left it never more in life. She walked about mournfully for a few
years, pressing her hand upon her heart; and then passed away to join her
lover, where distinctions in race or colour are unknown, and where the
prejudices of earth cannot mar their happiness.
Our tale is now soon finished. They buried Clarence beside his parents;
coloured people followed him to his last home, and wept over his grave. Of
all the many whites that he had known, Aunt Ada and Mr. Balch were the only
ones that mingled their tears with those who listened to the solemn words
of Father Banks, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
We, too, Clarence, cast a tear upon thy tomb--poor victim of prejudice to
thy colour! and deem thee better off resting upon thy cold pillow of earth,
than battling with that malignant sentiment that persecuted thee, and has
crushed energy, hope, and life from many stronger hearts.
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