Ah, wait until we get you home, we shall soon have you better."
"Home!" repeated Clarence,--"home! How delightful that word sounds! I feel
it is going _home_ to go to you and Em." And he leant back and repeated the
word "home," and paused afterward, as one touches some favourite note upon
an instrument, and then silently listens to its vibrations. "How is Em?" he
asked at length.
"Oh, well--very well," replied Charlie. "She has been busy as a bee ever
since she received your last letter; such a charming room as she has
prepared for you!"
"Ah, Charlie," rejoined Clarence, mournfully, "I shall not live long to
enjoy it, I fear."
"Nonsense!" interrupted Charlie, hopefully; "don't be so desponding, Clary:
here is spring again,--everything is thriving and bursting into new life.
You, too, will catch the spirit of the season, and grow in health and
strength again. Why, my dear fellow," continued he, cheerfully, "you can't
help getting better when we once get hold of you. Mother's gruels, Doctor
Burdett's prescriptions, and Em's nursing, would lift a man out of his
coffin. Come, now, don't let us hear anything more about dying."
Clarence pressed his hand and looked at him affectionately, as though he
appreciated his efforts to cheer him and felt thankful for them; but he
only shook his head and smiled mournfully.
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