“Remember what Mountford says: ‘Fame is a great thing for a man; it is silence for him when he wants to speak; it is a platform to preach from, more authoritative than a monarch’s throne; it is an affectionate attention from a multitude of hearers.’ Win fame, Mark—win the silence that will wait for your voice; the platform more authoritative than the monarch’s throne; the reverential attention of multitudes! Only let sounds of words of truth and justice fall upon the silence; principles of righteousness speak from the platform; and the confiding attention of the crowd be riveted to the glorious right!” High, inspiring words of holiness like these fell daily from her lips. But Rosalie was dying—dying all the faster because her failing oil of life was consumed so ungrudgingly—her lamp of life shone so brightly, giving light where it was needed. Yes, Rosalie was dying, and her husband did not dream of it. Soothed into rest by her own sweet patience, and by the slowness and beauty of her failure, he did not dream of it! He left her with an increased burden of duties. At the urgent entreaties of his political friends, he went to show himself among the voters of the western counties. He was absent about a month, during which she toiled for “the good cause” faithfully—saying, when her strength was failing, “There will be time enough for rest hereafter; I must ‘work while it is yet day, for the night cometh wherein no man can work.’” And so, at the close of her daily school duties, she only left her school desk to seat herself in the editor’s vacant chair; and the hours that should have been spent in recreation and rest, and the hours that belonged to sleep, were devoted to the interests of “the paper,” and the cause it supported—to writing editorials, to reading and answering letters, examining exchanges, and propitiating or putting down opposition. Mark Sutherland returned at the end of the month, with the flush of hope upon his cheek, the light of anticipated triumph in his eyes; but both light and colour faded from his face at the sudden sight of Rosalie’s brilliant eyes and burning cheeks. Was it strange that he never was struck by her illness, except upon meeting her after an absence? On the contrary, I think it was natural, for a few days accustomed him to her appearance; and her sweet patience, her cheerfulness and hope, mesmerised him into peace and joy. But this time, as he drew her into the house, he said— “Indeed, Rosalie, you must, you _shall_ give up your school. You are not strong enough to continue it! Besides, it is not needful. My election is nearly certain, and then another sphere and other more graceful, agreeable, and lady-like amusements will await you, dearest.” Rosalie smiled. “Dear Mark, whenever you make a circuit among our hardy country people, you come back thinking me more fragile than ever, from the contrast.”