nearly past the effects of the rheumatism, have little or no pain, and my cough is not dangerous now, I am sure; I sleep pretty well for me, and I eat good substantial food. Now, if I can hold fast to all these improvements, I cannot think it will be necessary for any person to leave home and business to come to me. I could not be come _for_ at present, for I should not dare attempt the voyage yet, and I hope to be able to get along by myself, especially as it is almost summer now. But, dear Ber, I think every moment how good and kind it was of you to say you _would_ come if I needed you, and if I should “go to the bad” again, I fear I shall need you. If such a miserable state of things comes, I will telegraph, and you will all consult, and do what seems best to you to do. You know much better than I what would be well to do, and, if it must be done, you will do it. Doesn’t the State want to send you over to make some investigations? In that case it wouldn’t seem such waste of ammunition on small game as to come just to look after poor miserable me, who never amount to anything anywhere. But, Ber, I _shall never have done_ thinking how quick and kind you were in writing me, and what strength and purpose I felt in every line of your letter, and it strengthens me still. You saw so clearly how I needed a strong arm near me; all about me is _so weak_. I have managed everything since my illness, for myself, and all around me, from my banking business and correspondence to my butcher and grocer, the airing of my linen, and the arranging of the chairs in my room. There is no mind or will or thought that can go one inch beyond me, when I stop. There is no hand that has enough magnetic force to take away one nervous twinge, not a hand that does not take magnetism from me even now, and days when I am weakest, I cannot let a hand be laid upon me, to rub, or even comb my hair. I feel the loss of strength directly and fall into nervous perspiration. I tell you all this because I read between the lines of your dear letter that you half divined the case, and I may as well confess it. I believe I can bring myself up out of this weakness, and then I will come home to thank you, and be “put in my little bed.” Won’t you write me again soon, now you know how it does me good? Dear Fannie offers her “Bear” to me,--what a good Bearess she is, isn’t she? Now, dear Ber, with a great big kiss, and I can’t say that there aren’t a few other little things dropped along with it, here, my good boy, is my good-bye. From Your Old Sick Auntie CLARA Ber, you must hold your good mother steady and not let her get alarmed. It will never do for her to come all this way on such an errand. In any case it would be _too hard_ for her.