8:40 P.M. Spent about five minutes with W. Sultriest day of the year. The whole community a growl. I met Mrs. Baker's sister at Ashbourne from whom I heard good news—that the wound in the body had healed, that the arm was troublesome but not to be lost, that Baker sits up most of the time, that he goes to the mountains Tuesday and after a fortnight there will probably come to Ashbourne. Further, I learned that Baker did not draw on Anderson at all—that after Anderson had fired and wounded Baker and Baker had fallen, Mrs. Baker took the revolver out of B.'s pocket but did not know how to use it. But the family expects nothing to be done to Anderson if Baker recovers, as Baker's possession of a pistol nullifies a good deal that could otherwise be urged against A. But evidence shows Anderson brutish—premeditating evil. I went over all this for W. who sat on the side of the bed, questioned me and called it "good news—as good as any."
He had turned the light down—was disrobing. "It has been a frightful day. After my bath, I sat a long while here, naked, not a stitch on, fanning myself—but even that was only a moment's pleasure." Yet he looked himself. Yes, would take his usual rubbing, despite heat—calls it "the life of me" these days. Warrie amused to tell me, too, of W.'s "picture" as he dried himself after bath. No sign but that he stands everything nobly. As I left he said, "We must have more news of Doctor. And that you bring me from Baker—oh! it is good!" And his "Good night! God bless you, boy!" followed me into the hall. I question him every day, how I can add to his pleasure—eating, anything else—but he says, "I know of nothing. I seem to have all I need. Strength—that is what I want—that will never come again."