"I wish that I could divide myself between them; or that I had wings,
so that I might flit from one to other in a moment.

"I hope soon to write you at length. Yours," etc.

Again on the 16th I heard from him, thus: --

"Yesterday I had a still more copious hemorrhage! . . .

"I am lying supine in bed, forbidden to speak or make any exertion whatever.
But I can't resist the temptation of dropping you a line,
in the hope of calling forth a score or two from you in return.

"An awkward time this for me to be sick! We are destitute of funds,
almost of food. But God will provide!

"I send you a Sonnet, written the other day, as an Obituary
for Mr. Harris Simons. Tell me what you think of it -- be sure!
Love to your mother, wife, and my precious Willie [since the death
of his own child he had turned with a yearning affection to my boy].
Let me hear from you soon -- VERY soon! You'll do me more good
than medicines!" etc.

On the 25th of the month confidence in Timrod's recovery was confirmed
by a letter from Mrs. Goodwin: --

"Our brother," she writes, "is decidedly better; and if there be
no recurrence of the hemorrhage will, I hope, be soon convalescent!"

A week and upwards passed on in silence. I received no more communications