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Droop not, sister, and thy weeping For my fated end give o'er. Mourn not—dying is not dying Unto those who love not life, But a hope to the relying, And a glad relense from strife.".

marked the beloved features grow rigid even while she gazed,—she felt the deadly chill of the hand which she clasped; hut still she stood beside the corpse, when the old servant, who had come in, whispered, "It is all over!—let me bind up the head." The sense of her loss thus brought before her was too overwhelming, and she sank insensible on the bed. They carried her into her own room, where it was long before she recovered; and when at last she revived, it was in a state of stupified exhaustion that ended in sleep—the deep heavy sleep of those utterly worn out both in body and mind. It was broad daylight the next morning before she awoke: she was roused