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Sunday, December 28, 1890

     4:45 P.M. W. sitting near the fire, on one of the little chairs (always looks particularly giantesque so situated)—a big blanket gathered around him. Said he was cold—soon, however, comfortable. Had just been stirring up fire and putting more wood on. Asked about the weather: was it not colder? As indeed it was. What news had I? Nothing in papers today, he thought.

     I offered him Bucke's letter, yesterday's—with account of accident. Had not his glasses—could not read—would I read it for him? Lucky he had not glasses. Would have been unfortunate had he read closing paragraph, but I forgot in offering him, and now omitted. I always advise Bucke to never write things I should show him and things I should keep to myself in same letter. W. exclaimed when I was done: "The poor Doctor! the poor Doctor! And it is not serious? Yet everything is serious at his age. O Doctor! Doctor! Why do you risk so much? so much? Surely he takes too many chances. I am sure of it—sure of it!" And he was probably more serious, if not sad, thenceforth. I was rather surprised—had not an idea he would be so affected. "And I just wrote him a postal, too: Warrie just took it up—not five minutes ago! Well—well—well!" I promised him I would write today, at least a few lines—wanted me to do so, though saying: "I have nothing particular to send."

     Asked after sister Agnes. How was she settled in her new home. W. of course not out today. Said he had heard Doctor Garrison was better: "I was glad, too, to hear that—he has always been my friend." W. said he had "woke up well" and "kept well" all the day.


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