It was decided that Mr. Whitman should make one of his delightful visits to his friends, the Staffords, in their beautiful country home, "Timber Creek," just as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take the trip, and Mrs. Davis thought best to defer talking with him or considering any definite step regarding home matters until he returned. She took pains to get him ready, and, as she had done before, persuaded him to purchase some new clothing and look his best. This visit, like previous ones, was charming to the poet, and he came home much benefited. While he was away Mrs. Davis rested and paid a short visit to the aged parents of Mrs. Fritzinger in Doylstown, Pennsylvania. In this breathing spell she had thought home matters over and had planned her mode of procedure; but alas! when the poet appeared upon the spot and she had welcomed him, the courage she had summoned up when he was out of sight deserted her. She threw out hints, then made attempts to speak, but to no avail; an understanding was not brought about and things went on in the old fashion. Much as Mr. Whitman enjoyed his visits and jaunts, coming back to his own home was the one great joy of his life, and meeting his housekeeper after even a brief absence was always a pleasure to him. It was quite late in the fall when he returned. He resumed his work at once, and the winter was not an unpleasant one to him; only somewhat tedious, because he was so closely confined to the house. In other ways it was made cheerful with social events and agreeable company, and it was brightened with anticipations of the delightful drives to be enjoyed in the spring. (It was about this time that Horace Traubel commenced to come to the house.) Each season had added to his popularity, until he had attained the zenith of his most sanguine imaginations; his most potent daydreams had truly materialized; he was fully on the crest of the wave! His housekeeping had surpassed his fondest expectations, for to him his home was ideal. Deprivation was a thing of the past; there was no lack of means, as private contributions were sent to him amounting to many hundreds of dollars. That he was poor and needy, and "was supported in his final infirmities by the kind interest of his friends, who subscribed each his mite that the little old frame house in Camden might shelter the snowy head of the bard to the end," was the universal belief, and a kindly feeling was manifested towards him in his own home and in England. It is to be regretted that he was not better fitted physically to enjoy all his later blessings.