A single glance at the letter blanches your cheek. Your heart
throbs--throbs harder--throbs tumultuously. You bite your lip, for there
are lookers-on. But it will not do. You hurry away; you find your
chamber; you close and lock the door, and burst into a flood of tears.
V.
_A Broken Home._
It is Nelly's own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,--blotted with her tears,
and blotted with yours.
----"It is all over, dear, dear Clarence! Oh, how I wish you were here
to mourn with us! I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is
indeed dead."
----Dead!--It is a terrible word! You repeat it with a fresh burst of
grief. The letter is crumpled in your hand. Unfold it again, sobbing,
and read on.
"For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought
her very much better. I told her I felt sure she would live to see you
again.
"'I shall never see him again, Nelly,' said she, bursting into tears."
----Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength
now?--with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp!
"She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was
dying. I am glad you did not see his grief.
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