We strained our eyes to see the furthest point before us, and we
tried to find it on the map we had brought with us. The season of
the year, which is usually supposed to make men pensive, had no such
effect upon us. Everything in the future, even the winter in London,
was painted by Hope, and the death of the summer brought no sadness.
Rather did summer dying in such fashion fill our hearts with repose,
and even more than repose--with actual joy.
Here ends the autobiography. A month after this last holiday my
friend was dead and buried. He had unsuspected disease of the heart,
and one day his master, of whom we have heard something, was more
than usually violent. Mark, as his custom was, was silent, but
evidently greatly excited. His tyrant left the room; and in a few
minutes afterwards Mark was seen to turn white and fall forward in
his chair. It was all over! His body was taken to a hospital and
thence sent home. The next morning his salary up to the day of his
death came in an envelope to his widow, without a single word from
his employers save a request for acknowledgment. Towards mid-day,
his office coat, and a book found in his drawer, arrived in a brown
paper parcel, carriage unpaid.
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