He wrote often now to Emily and her husband, and seemed desirous to atone
for his past neglect. Emily had written to him first; she had learned of
his disappointment, and gave him a sister's sympathy in his loneliness and
sorrow.
The chilly month of March had scarcely passed away when they received a
letter from him informing them of his intention to return. He wrote, "I am
no better, and my physician says that a longer residence here will not
benefit me in the least--that I came _too late_. I cough, cough, cough,
incessantly, and each day become more feeble. I am coming home, Emmy;
coming home, I fear, to die. I am but a ghost of my former self. I write
you this that you may not be alarmed when you see me. It is too late now to
repine, but, oh! Em, if my lot had only been cast with yours--had we never
been separated--I might have been to-day as happy as you are."
It was a clear bright morning when Charlie stepped into a boat to be
conveyed to the ship in which Clarence had returned to New York: she had
arrived the evening previous, and had not yet come up to the dock. The air
came up the bay fresh and invigorating from the sea beyond, and the water
sparkled as it dripped from the oars, which, with monotonous regularity,
broke the almost unruffled surface of the bay.
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