"Clarence,"--writes that neglected mother,--"you do not know how much
you are in our thoughts, and how often you are the burden of my prayers.
Oh, Clarence, I could almost wish that you were still a boy,--still
running to me for those little favors which I was only too happy to
bestow,--still dependent in some degree on your mother's love for
happiness.
"Perhaps I do you wrong, Clarence, but it does seem from the changing
tone of your letters, that you are becoming more and more forgetful of
us all; that you are feeling less need of our advice, and--what I feel
far more deeply--less need of our affection. Do not, my son, forget the
lessons of home. There will come a time, I feel sure, when you will know
that those lessons are good. They may not indeed help you in that
intellectual strife which soon will engross you; and they may not have
fitted you to shine in what are called the brilliant circles of the
world, but they are such, Clarence, as make the heart pure and honest
and strong!
"You may think me weak to write you thus, as I would have written to my
light-hearted boy years ago; indeed I am not strong, but growing every
day more feeble.
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