12:10 P.M. Went down with Anne Montgomerie. Left her in parlor. Found W. working again on his Lippincott's piece—had it in his lap—making changes and additions here and there. "Yes," he said, "as long as it is about here I suppose I will tinker at it." Warren away today. Cold and raw, though not stormy, out of doors. W. looked wonderfully well—though not as well, he said, as he looked. Complexion purer, eye clearer. I called Anne up, W. greeting her cordially, remarking quickly the roses in her cheeks—"the fresh air set flowing there." Said he was "really spending a happy Christmas"—and further—"I often have to wish myself that I really felt as well as I seem to look—but I do not." He questioned Anne about the day. We spoke of the odor of the plenteous wood piled before the stove by Warren before he went away. I spoke of its wonder and W. repeated my word—admitting it had "wonder: that first wonder—influence—which no man has yet explained." Was not in with W. to tarry any length of time. "Enviged" me, he said smilingly, my prospective roamings this day. "Glad to hear" I had sent papers and written to Johnston (England): "I wonder if there are many such fellows over there in the British Isles? They are noble—noble!" I interpreted this way: "Until you become popular you will only attract more marked and generous natures."—"You think so? I am not sure—nor sure, either, but you are right." Had read papers somewhat this morning. "No news—nothing at all of any real interest." Again: "I had another letter from Dave today—an order. He wants another copy of the big book. Had one yesterday, you remember? After all, they sell, after their own fashion." Wallace's last letter speaks of "To the Sunset Breeze," which profoundly moved him. W. surprised at the reception of this poem. "First of all was your applause, the first I heard: then again and again, from others and others." Would have to stay indoors. "I am sorry for my imprisonment—but glad I have a good prison," etc., with a laugh.