“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Clarence, passionately, “I knew—­I knew I should see her. I knew it,” repeated he, exultingly; and then, overcome with joy, he bowed his head upon Charlie’s shoulder and wept like a child.  “Don’t think me foolish, Charlie,” apologized he, “I cannot help it.  I will go home now.  Oh, brother, I feel so much happier.”  And with a step less faint and trembling, he walked back to the carriage.

The following evening he was at home, but so enfeebled with the exertions of the last two days, as to be obliged to take to his bed immediately after his arrival.  His sister greeted him affectionately, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him tenderly; years of coldness and estrangement were forgotten in that moment, and they were once more to each other as they were before they parted.

Emily tried to appear as though she did not notice the great change in his appearance, and talked cheerfully and encouragingly in his presence; but she wept bitterly, when alone, over the final separation which she foresaw was not far distant.

The nest day Doctor Burdett called, and his grave manner and apparent disinclination to encourage any hope, confirmed the hopeless impression they already entertained.

Aunt Ada came from Sudbury at Emily’s request; she knew her presence would give pleasure to Clarence, she accordingly wrote her to come, and she and Emily nursed by turns the failing sufferer.

Esther and her husband, Mrs. Ellis and Caddy, and even Kinch, were unremitting in their attentions, and did all in their power to amuse and comfort him.  Day by day he faded perceptibly, grew more and more feeble, until at last Doctor Burdett began to number days instead of weeks as his term of life.  Clarence anticipated death with calmness—­did not repine or murmur.  Father Banks was often with him cheering him with hopes of a happier future beyond the grave.

One day he sent for his sister and desired her to write a letter for him.  “Em,” said he, “I am failing fast; these fiery spots on my cheek, this scorching in my palms, these hard-drawn, difficult breaths, warn me that the time is very near.  Don’t weep, Em!” continued he, kissing her—­“there, don’t weep—­I shall be better off—­happier—­I am sure!  Don’t weep now—­I want you to write to little Birdie for me.  I have tried, but my hand trembles so that I cannot write legibly—­I gave it up.  Sit down beside me here, and write; here is the pen.”  Emily dried her eyes, and mechanically sat down to write as he desired.  Motioning to him that she was ready, he dictated—­

“My Dear Little Birdie,—­I once resolved never to write to you again, and partially promised your father that I would not; then I did not dream that I should be so soon compelled to break my resolution.  Little Birdie, I am dying!  My physician informs me that I have but a few more days to live.  I have been trying to break away from earth’s affairs and fix my thoughts on other and better things.  I have given up all but you, and feel that I cannot relinquish you until I see you once again.  Do not refuse me, little Birdie!  Show this to your father—­he must consent to a request made by one on the brink of the grave.”