Won't you ask aunty to come and cut it for me ?" Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the other room.
The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, "Come aunty, shear the sheep!" "What's that ?" said St.Clare, who just then entered with some fruit he had been out to get for her.
"Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair;--there's too much of it, and it makes my head hot.

Besides, I want to give some of it away." Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.
"Take care,--don't spoil the looks of it!" said her father; "cut underneath, where it won't show.

Eva's curls are my pride." "O, papa!" said Eva, sadly.
"Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I take you up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Henrique," said St.Clare, in a gay tone.
"I shall never go there, papa;--I am going to a better country.

O, do believe me! Don't you see, papa, that I get weaker, every day ?" "Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, Eva ?" said her father.
"Only because it is _true_, papa: and, if you will believe it now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do." St.Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid, one by one, in her lap.

She raised them up, looked earnestly at them, twined them around her thin fingers, and looked from time to time, anxiously at her father.
"It's just what I've been foreboding!" said Marie; "it's just what has been preying on my health, from day to day, bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards it.