And all this time piles of accumulated and accumulating letters from political partisans lay unopened and unanswered, on his forsaken secretary.
At last the day of death came—a clear, beautiful day, that, after the noontide glory, waned without a cloud.
Rosalie lay sleeping on her bed; her pale gold hair, unconfined by a cap, lay floating on the pillow; her wan face was as white as the linen pillow-case against which it rested; her thin, blue-veined arm, uncovered from the loose muslin sleeve, was white as the counterpane upon which it lay. She slept calmly for a while, and then her bosom was agitated by a slight flutter; it came a second and a third time; and then, with a start and a gasp, she awoke, opened her eyes, and gazed wildly about for an instant; then her glance fell on Mrs. Wells, sitting watching by her bed-side. That lady arose, and, bending affectionately over the invalid, inquired—
“What do you want, dearest? Will you take your composing draught now?”
The eyes of the death-stricken Rosalie softened into self-possession and quietness, and she answered faintly, “No, mother, not now. Where is Mark?”
“On the piazza, dear.”
“Sleeping?”
“No; waiting for his darling to awake.”
“Send him to me, mother. I wish to see him alone.” The lady stooped, and pressed a kiss upon the chill brow of the dying girl, and without suspicion went out; and in half a minute Mark stood over Rosalie.
She raised her eyes, a little wild with the life-struggle, to his pale face.