“Useless, dear Mark! useless all. Oh! sit near me, where I can see you till the last, and so—part in peace sweetly.” She lay upon her right side, with her face towards him, with her fair hair floating back upon the pillow, with her blue eyes raised with unspeakable love to his countenance, with her left hand lying helplessly over the white counterpane. He sunk down into the chair by her side; he took her chill hand in his own warm one; he gazed upon her dying face. And, as he gazed, a slight spasm agitated her fair throat, quivered over the sweet lips, and gave place to a heavenly smile. She sought to speak, but her words sank in quivering music—her eyes fixed upon his eyes—pouring their last light in streams of unutterable love into his soul—and so they remained, until the heavenly spirit left them dim in death. And still he sat gazing upon the dead face, holding the cold hand, until a noise in the piazza disturbed him, and words and tones of joy and triumph fell upon his ear—and a familiar voice, asking—“Where is Mark? Where is he? I swore to be the first to congratulate him, and I’ll do it! I will not be hindered, I tell you!” and in another instant Uncle Billy burst into the room, and, overjoyed, bewildered, _blinded_, rushed upon Mark, who had risen to prevent him, seized both his hands, exclaiming exultingly— “Judge Sutherland, you are elected, sir! Sir, by an unprecedented vote! Allow me the honour of being the first to pay my respects to our Senator!” Mark Sutherland grasped his visitor’s hand with overmastering force, and silently pointed to the still, pale form upon the bed. Mr. Bolling drew nigh, in sudden awe and grief; and his heart almost stood still, as he inquired, with hushed tones— “_Dead?_” “No!” replied Mark Sutherland, reverently,—“IMMORTAL!” CHAPTER XXXIV. “TAKE UP THE BURTHEN OF LIFE AGAIN.” “Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O’er joys that God hath for a reason lent, Perchance to try thy spirit and its bent, Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn. “Art thou already weary of the way— Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o’er? Get up and lift thy burthen; lo, before Thy feet the road goes stretching far away.”—_Fanny Kemble._