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My dear Nelly,

I sit down home here in the front basement alone to write you a few lines. Mother is still at Burlington, & I am waiting to hear from her, what she decides, about coming home—I shall probably go for her very shortly. I find it makes a mighty difference in my visit—(What is home without—&c)—

My dear little California is sick—infantile remittent fever—for the past week has just been lying quiet & pale, eats literally nothing—it is pitiful, & throws a gloom over every thing—doctor comes every day, & sometimes twice a day—when I ask him about the chances, he is rather noncommittal—saying the disease in such a case as hers is expected to run fourteen days, before a turn for either better or worse—the fourteen days are up next Sunday—meanwhile she grows weaker & weaker—

I am middling well—My brother George has resumed carpentering—he is well, & looks fine—I see him every day—the rest of the folks all well. I send my love to Charles Eldridge—same to Ashton—when you write tell me the latest from the baby & Mrs. Ashton. Send William the enclosed piece—it is one of those I spoke of—When you write direct to me, Portland av. near Myrtle.

Walt.