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.