But his words died in a strange gurgling in the throat; the eyes suddenly became fixed; the mouth fell; once he stretched out his hands convulsively, but they instantly relaxed, and his head sunk on Norbourne's arm. They raised him; and, carrying him to the bed, laid him there. Pale, tranquil, and sweet, his face looked sleep, not death. They knelt by the bedside, at first too awe-struck for sorrow; prayers, not tears, seemed fitted to the scene: they felt as if around them were the presence of Heaven.
And so perished, in the flower of his age, in the promise of his mind, the high-minded and gifted Walter Maynard. He died poor, surrounded by the presence of life's harsh and evil allotment, but the faithful and affectionate spirit kept its own to the last. Depressed, sorrowful, he might be, as he went on a hard path wearily; but he died hopeful and loving. His poet's heart clung to this world, but to leave it a rich legacy of feelings and of thoughts; his spirit welcomed death,
