“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.

“Let me help your man to get you up.  When once you get ashore you’ll feel better, I’ve no doubt.  We are not going to an hotel, but to the house of a friend who has kindly offered to make you comfortable until you are able to travel.”

With the assistance of Charlie and the servant, Clarence was gradually prepared to go ashore.  He was exceedingly weak, could scarcely totter across the deck; and it was with some difficulty that they at last succeeded in placing him safely in the boat.  After they landed, a carriage was soon procured, and in a short time thereafter Clarence was comfortably established in the house of Charlie’s friend.

Their hostess, a dear old motherly creature, declared that she knew exactly what Clarence needed; and concocted such delicious broths, made such strengthening gruels, that Clarence could not avoid eating, and in a day or two he declared himself better than he had been for a month, and felt quite equal to the journey to Philadelphia.

The last night of their stay in New York was unusually warm; and Clarence informed Charlie he wished to go out for a walk.  “I wish to go a long distance,—­don’t think me foolish when I tell you where.  I want to look at the house where little Birdie lives.  It may be for the last time.  I have a presentiment that I shall see her if I go,—­I am sure I shall,” added he, positively, as though he felt a conviction that his desire would be accomplished.

“I would not, Clary,” remonstrated Charlie.  “Your health won’t permit the exertion; it is a long distance, too, you say; and, moreover, don’t you think, my dear fellow, that it is far more prudent to endeavour, if possible, to banish her from your mind entirely.  Don’t permit yourself to think about her, if you can help it.  You know she is unattainable by you, and you should make an effort to conquer your attachment.”

“It is too late—­too late now, Charlie,” he replied, mournfully.  “I shall continue to love her as I do now until I draw my last breath.  I know it is hopeless—­I know she can never be more to me than she already is; but I cannot help loving her.  Let us go; I may see her once again.  Ah, Charlie, you cannot even dream what inexpressible pleasure the merest glimpse of her affords me!  Come, let us go.”