5 P.M. W. in very poor condition indeed today. Sat in the parlor when I came, fanning himself. The day quite warm. Said he had been experiencing one of his "very worst days." Looked haggard and weary. We talked only a little while. I had given Frank Williams his book today. When I described to W. his pleasure at receiving it, W. said: "Well—that, if nothing else, makes it worth while to give!" Talked about Gilchrist's onslaught on Morse's bust, but W. advised that we take no account of it. Corning came in while I was there, and we afterwards went off together. To C.'s hope that he would weather through the summer all right, W. said: "Oh! thanks! but it's all right either way! But I guess I will!" He called my attention to a bunch of wheat-stalks on the table. "A lady brought them in. And do you notice the delicious smell?" As usual he made no complaint whatever of his sickness, only saying that it "disqualified" him from all duties. "But in a little while we are going down to the river—Ed and I." I have not seen him in this condition for months. It raises my solicitude. As we left he took up a local paper—said he would try to read.