7.45 P.M. W. in his room, reading. Had just been down stairs. While "not of much account anyhow," he "felt better" than the day before. I took him a fine proof of the Morse bust. He was greatly moved by it—contemplated it long—held it at a distance, then took it near, "Well," he exclaimed, "there's something in Sidney after all, something in this nowhere else, in no other picture, to be found. And this is no doubt the best rendering of the bust so far—the best—I like it a great deal." And after a pause—"Here it is, and you, Sidney—in spite of what the fellows say—you have done it!" He turned to me: "We must send the Doctor a copy at once—or as soon as we can. And with it a loose copy of the book if you can get the sheets for me. And I'll tell you what I want—I want the sheets stitched, if you can—and you can?" Returned me the copy of the New England Magazine. To my question, said: "You will find Bucke's book in the statistical, geneological way—as far as that goes—reliable, confirmed: all the first part of his book must hold its own. And then I can verify him and you both when your article is together. Burroughs' book may throw some side lights, too—be useful: I have always found it so." And on the score of illustration—"I will furnish you with whatever you desire."
Some one arranged his room in something like order today. "I am experiencing rather a bad time all through," he said in answer to question as to health—then asked—"Is it too warm here? How is the weather out?" Again said—"Here is something I thought might do for Morris"—picking up from a pile of books a pink-covered pamphlet. "It is a supplement to La Vogue—a French paper"—but here he paused—"On second thought I will not give this to Morris. It would most properly—with most advantage—go to Bucke, who saves all such curios. I have myself sent him numberless such things. He collects them—so the stream may just as well continue that way." W.'s mood altogether more cheerful than last night.