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THINK some strength died out of Mark that night : A certain patience grew on him from then, And quietness, like the calm of dying men. His journey was delayed from day to day; The mother died, all suddenly, at last, He only being with her, and some said He murdered her; so wicked is the world! He needs must stay to face the slander down, Though we, who loved him, cared about it least, Until I said one eve, " Why, Mark, your hand Grows thin and pale, and, held up so, looks like An alabaster shade before a lamp." Agnes was painting, but she raised her head, And turned on him her tender, lustrous eyes With gaze of woful pity, love, and pain. He smiled at her as though she reached his wound