Tuesday, March 15, 1892
I asked again, "Have you had a look at the Telegram?"
"What?"
"At the Telegram."
"Yes."
"Was it right?"
"Very—good."
"Do you feel any return of strength?"
"None—none."
"Loss?"
"Always—more—more."
"I am on my way to work—to the busy desk over there in the big town."
"Luck!"
"I tire of it at times."
"No doubt."
"But I stick to it."
He smiled, "I know you do."
Warrie had left the room. I reached over—kissed his hand. "Good-bye—good-bye, Walt."
His face lighted up, "Bye—bye."
"I am sorry you must suffer so."
"It's—right."
Every word a struggle. And again I kissed him, and heard him say, "Bless—bless." Coughed—choked—breathed heavily. I turned as I reached the door. His eyes opened. He smiled. That smile! And after I had gone I had yet to go back. Again to see him, to have his smile.
