The next morning Wilson was radiantly happy, notwithstanding "a hard night"; and it happened to be one of the days when summer does her best to keep us in love with life. All the forenoon we spent under a great maple-tree, with birds in the branches and blue sky overhead, Wilson abandoning himself to the simple joy of living and resting. Wilson was a fine-looking man in citizen's dress, his regular features refined and spiritualized by illness.
There were preparations to be made for Minnesota and the suit-case to be repacked, and what value Wilson placed upon the various articles I contributed! I think it was the cake of scented soap—clearly a luxury—that pleased him most, but he was interested in every single thing, and his heart was warmed by the cordial friendliness of my mother, who added her own contribution to his future comfort. His one regret was that he had nothing to give us in return.
But time was on the wing, and the morning slipped by all too rapidly, as the hours of red-letter days always do, and the afternoon brought the parting at the train for Minneapolis. Wilson lingered beside me while there was time, then looking gravely into my eyes, he said: "Good-by; I hope that we shall meet again—on this side." A moment later the moving train carried him away toward the north, which to him meant the hope of health.
Exhausted by the journey to Minneapolis, he at once applied for admission to a Catholic hospital, and here I will let him speak for himself, through the first letter that I received after he left me.
"Dear Friend:
"I am now in the hospital, and I am so sleepy when I try to write that I asked one of the sisters to write for me.
"I felt quite weak when I first came here, but now I take beef-tea, and I feel so much stronger, I think I will be very much better by the end of this month.
"The Mother Superior is most kind and calls me her boy and thinks she will soon have me quite well again. I have a fine room to myself, and I feel most happy as I enjoy the beautiful fresh air from the Mississippi River, which runs quite near me.
"Dear friend, I wish you were here to enjoy a few days and see how happy I am."
And scrawled below, in a feeble but familiar handwriting, were the words:
"I tried to write, but failed."
Under the influence of the sisters Wilson was led back to the church into which he had been baptized, and although he did not accept its limitations he found great comfort in the sense of protection that it gave him. Rest and nursing and the magical air of Minnesota effected such an improvement in his health that before many weeks Wilson was discharged from the hospital.
After a short period of outdoor work, in which he tested his strength, he went into a printing-office, where, for a month, he felt himself a man among men. But it was an overambitious and unwise step—confinement and close air of the office were more than he could endure, and with great regret he gave up the situation.
Winter was setting in and he found no work that he could do, and yet thought himself too well to again seek admission to a hospital. The outlook of life darkened, for there seemed to be no place for him anywhere. He did not write to me during that time of uncertainty, and one day, after having spent three nights in a railroad station, as a last resort he asked to be sent to the county home and was received there; after that he could not easily obtain admission to a hospital.