The summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room. The heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. Part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more than this. His outings were few in number, the reading fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. However, this did not prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies. His world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four walls of his own room enclosed it. He had relinquished his hold upon outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished to be left alone, left to himself. He was his own best company, apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one of his long reveries. At intervals he would seem to be the old-time man, would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of depression or dreaded indigestion. In the latter case, day would succeed day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small glass of iced buttermilk. The fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady decline until December 17, when after a number of miserable days he was seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. For a week his life hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best medical advice was procured. Each hour the final call seemed at hand; then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight improvement. The burden of all this fell mainly upon Warren, who was only relieved temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. Believing that each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the 28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance. As the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia to engage a professional nurse. XVI THE NEW NURSE "_Well, I told you doctors when I was so very bad, 'let me go; let me die.' I felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of it for a moment, and here I am._ "_I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. You are all making a strong pull for me, I can see that._"--WALT WHITMAN.