To 328 as usual between ten and and eleven. Mrs. Keller was just rearranging W. and the bed. He complained (hiccoughing greatly), "I am very weak: these hiccoughs tire me all out." Looked rather worse than last night. (Warrie wants to get him to sign the doctors' pictures.) W. said to Mrs. Keller, "I will take a little bread—not just now but in a little while." And as she fixed his head and stroked the hair back, "I am better now: it is a bit better." Some reaction evident. Will it last? I went to Philadelphia and to various duties there with trepidation.
10:10 P.M. Again at 328. No sign of change in W., except of relief from the morning's pressure. The hiccoughs had passed off. Anne with me—I went into the room several times, tip-toeing—and it did not seem to arouse or disturb him. Anne also in. Promise of an easy night. It made my heart glad. McAlister had left his weekly report for me to forward to Bucke. The nurse had left her daily notes for me. The air tranquil. W. rallied from the morning's depression.
I spoke at a labor meeting up at Kensington this afternoon and was astonished to have a mere mention of W.'s name produce a storm of applause. What does this mean? How much is information of W. filtering into the paths and lives of those men?