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.  Some of the ship’s sails were shaken out to dry in the morning sun, and the cordage hung loosely and carelessly from the masts and yards.  A few sailors lounged idly about the deck, and leaned over the side to watch the boat as it approached.  With their aid it was soon secured alongside, and Charlie clambered up the ladder, and stood upon the deck of the vessel.  On inquiring for Clarence, he was shown into the cabin, where he found him extended on a sofa.

He raised himself as he saw Charlie approach, and, extending his hand, exclaimed,—­“How kind!  I did not expect you until we reached the shore.”

For a moment, Charlie could not speak.  The shock caused by Clarence’s altered appearance was too great,—­the change was terrible.  When he had last seen him, he was vigorous-looking, erect, and healthful; now he was bent and emaciated to a frightful extent.  The veins on his temples were clearly discernible; the muscles of his throat seemed like great cords; his cheeks were hollow, his sunken eyes were glassy bright and surrounded with a dark rim, and his breathing was short and evidently painful.  Charlie held his thin fleshless hand in his own, and gazed in his face with an anguished expression.

“I look badly,—­don’t I Charlie?” said he, with assumed indifference; “worse than you expected, eh?”

Charlie hesitated a little, and then answered,—­“Rather bad; but it is owing to your sea-sickness, I suppose; that has probably reduced you considerably; then this close cabin must be most unfavourable to your health.  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.