one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or
Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie
has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's.

But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is
very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you
know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his
lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and
weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you.
He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was
always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never
think of going _there_, I am thinking of a longer journey
_still_." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have
got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked
so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He
replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages
in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the
land where all our wandering's will have an end. I
longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign
lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to
_Heaven_." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said
it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked
of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven
than any of us who a year or two ago thought him
scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the
other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he
sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been
with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled
my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him.
Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to