It was soon evident that not only was he miserable and destitute, but ill too; and when presently for a fortnight he never passed the now well-known door, I knew that the fever had laid him low.
Poor Tom Drift! I wondered who was there now to nurse him in his weakness and comfort him in his wretchedness.

He must be untended and unheeded.

Well I knew his "friends" (oh, sad perversion of the sacred title!) would keep their distance, or return only in time to quench the first sparks of repentance.

If only Charlie could have seen him at this time, with his spirit cowed and his weary heart beating about in vain for peace and hope, how would he not have flown to his bedside, and from those ruins have striven to help him to rise again to purity and honesty.
But no Charlie was there.

Since the last appealing letter so scornfully rejected, Tom had heard not a word of him or from him.