After the war which accomplished the abolition of slavery, Mrs. Stowe lived in Hartford, Connecticut, in summer, and spent the winters in Florida, where she bought a luxurious home. Her pen was hardly ever idle; and the popularity of her works seemed to steadily increase. She passed away on the 1st of July, 1896, amid the surroundings of her quiet, pretty home at Hartford, Connecticut. The whole reading world was moved at the news of her death, and many a chord vibrated at the remembrance of her powerful, and we may even say successful, advocacy of the cause of the slave. The good which “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” achieved can never be estimated, and the noble efforts of its author have been interwoven in the work of the world. * * * * * THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. FROM “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.” IT was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded under an awning of transparent gauze from the outrages of the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantly-bound prayer-book. She was holding it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she had been reading it――though, in fact, she had been only taking a succession of short naps with it open in her hand. Miss Ophelia, who, after some rumaging, had hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom as driver, to attend it, and Eva accompanied them. “I say, Augustine,” said Marie, after dozing awhile, “I must send to the city after my old doctor, Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the complaint of the heart.” “Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attends Eva seems skillful.” “I would not trust him in a critical case,” said Marie; “and I think I may say mine is becoming so! I’ve been thinking of it these two or three nights past; I have such distressing pains and such strange feelings.” “Oh, Marie, you are blue! I don’t believe it’s heart-complaint.” “I daresay _you_ don’t,” said Marie; “I was prepared to expect _that_. You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me.” “If it’s particularly agreeable to you to have heart-disease, why, I’ll try and maintain you have it,” said St. Clare; “I didn’t know it was.” “Well, I only hope you won’t be sorry for this when it’s too late!” said Marie. “But, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have long suspected.” What the _exertions_ were which Marie referred to it would have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted.