They went down the Bay and met the ship at night, but did not show themselves until morning, and then only to Clara.

When she returned to the stateroom she did not speak, and did not need to.

Her mother looked at her and said: "Susy is dead." At half past ten o'clock that night, Clara and her mother completed their circuit of the globe, and drew up at Elmira by the same train and in the same car which had borne them and me Westward from it one year, one month, and one week before.

And again Susy was there--not waving her welcome in the glare of the lights, as she had waved her farewell to us thirteen months before, but lying white and fair in her coffin, in the house where she was born.
The last thirteen days of Susy's life were spent in our own house in Hartford, the home of her childhood, and always the dearest place in the earth to her.

About her she had faithful old friends--her pastor, Mr.
Twichell, who had known her from the cradle, and who had come a long journey to be with her; her uncle and aunt, Mr.and Mrs.Theodore Crane; Patrick, the coachman; Katy, who had begun to serve us when Susy was a child of eight years; John and Ellen, who had been with us many years.
Also Jean was there.
At the hour when my wife and Clara set sail for America, Susy was in no danger.