able grief. He spoke to no one, apparently saw no one. His eyes were on the floor as he passed out upon the porch fanning himself. That sick man's fate meant a great deal to his first Secretary; but there has been no talk of that, and for all that the world knows there has been no thought of it. The spectacle of the strong man of the White House struck down in an instant without warning, for no reason, and only to gratify the whim of a madman, absorbed everything else. The highest public duty, to save the life of the President, seems to be the thought of everybody connected with the government. Justice Field seemed constantly present at the White House, nervously moving here and there, talking with many of the attendants, and evidently finding it impossible to be at ease when he could not be in constant receipt of news from the President.

"Sitting in the room with Mr. McVeagh, I learned the state of mind of all about the White House. It is the fact that for at least two hours there had been no hope of the President's recovery. The doctors, the attendants, the ladies about the house and those who visit the family had given up. It was not thought that the patient would die during the night, but it was conceded that at least all hope had left. It is wonderful how strongly the President has attached to himself all those about him. Great, big, bluff, hearty Ingersoll, who has loved Garfield many years, but who has been somewhat estranged of late, walked through the upper halls with tears streaming down his cheeks. The members of the Cabinet seemed to feel as though they were losing a lifelong, personal friend. No one could doubt that who listened to the discouraged tones of Mr. McVeagh, as he said that he had no longer any hopes. Men cannot give their voices the quality of sympathy that comes from within and cannot be counterfeited. 'Ah,' said he, 'he was never a better President than he was at the moment when Guiteau's bullet struck him down. He never saw more clearly, and he never had a firmer or better purpose. He was going to be all that the best thought of the

country ever expected of him. He was going to be a great President.'

Toward

"Suddenly there was a change for the better. midnight, the troubled slumbers of the President became peaceful, and he soon sank into the best sleep he had enjoyed since the shooting on Saturday morning. His pulse and temperature became better; there were signs of an improved vitality; the breathing was easier; the pains ceased; there was no longer any appearance of dangerous inflammation or of peritonitis; hope began to dawn where despondency had been; the faces that had been full of gloom began to look hopeful; there was yet some encouragement; recovery flung out her signals in the steady breathings and the peaceful slumber of the President. The improvement continued, and soon it was certain that the patient would at least survive through the night, and that it could again be said that there was hope of final recovery. It seemed as though the strong will and constitution of the man had made one more effort for life. The struggle all along has been one of ups and downs. Now the wound appears to have its way, and then again the man of vim, will and frame asserts himself. This ought to be borne

in mind in considering the relative importance of the bulletins that are issued by the attending physicians. They simply indicate a struggle and the existence of a possibility that the President may live. That is all.”

The next morning there seemed to be more sunshine in life, more beauty in nature, more goodness in the world-the President was better. During the day and the next night he held his own. On Wednesday, Washington returned to its normal condition. All business, which had been so rudely interrupted, went on again as usual, and the bulletins that appeared from time to time, were encouraging.

The President had all along been impatient

to see his children, who up to this time— July 9th-had been excluded from his bed-room. He was, however, so well on that day, that it was decided to allow them to come in one by one. The three children were called together-Harry, Jimmie and Mollie-and each was told that a visit was to be paid to their father. Before being admitted to the room they were cautioned not to talk and not to allow their father to converse with them. As Miss Millie entered the sick room she stood on the threshold a moment, and brushing away a few tears that would show themselves, she advanced firmly up to the bed on which her father lay. The President was turned the other way when his daughter entered, but he heard her light step and at once guessed it was she.

"My dearest girl," he said, moving near where his daughter was standing. He clasped her hands in his and was about to speak further when she disengaged one of her hands and placed a finger across his lip. He playfully attempted to bite the finger and then smiled.

"You are a brave, good child, Mollie,” he said; "and you must hope that your papa will get well."

"You will get better, papa; I know you will," Miss Mollie replied, trying to keep back the tears; "but you must not talk."

The father held his daughter's hands in his until the latter quietly slipped out of the room, knowing that her brothers would be impatient for the favor she had already enjoyed.

The meeting between father and sons was affecting. He grasped the right hand of Harry, the elder, and was evidently greatly agitated. The youth bore himself well and showed no signs of the storm that must have been raging within him. He said a few cheery words to his father, and the latter responded a trifle sadly that he hoped he would get better to be with his wife and children once more, Seeing that his presence seemed to affect his father Harry withdrew and Jimmie was admitted. He was detained by his father for a long time, but the President did not talk much, as his son would not allow him to do so. The President asked him what he had been doing all the morning, and Jimmie answered that he had been waiting to see his papa. "That's a good boy, my son," said the father.

From that day until Saturday, July 23d, there was nothing, apparently, but a steady march to convalescence. While the hearts of the people watched eagerly, closely, always, for the slightest change, they had come to the conclusion that Providence was on their side, and the President would get well. Aided by the physicians, he was rapidly doing so. That morning, however, there was a relapse. This is told in the story of the bulletins, to which the next chapter is devoted.

CHAPTER XL.

THE STORY OF THE BULLETINS.

W

HEN the President lay wounded in the railway station, the first physician to reach his side was Dr. Smith Townshend, Health Officer of the District of Columbia. Dr. Townshend, on arriving, found that a faint and slight vomiting had just occurred. There was no pulse perceptible. Aromatic spirits of ammonia and brandy were immediately administered. The clothing having been foosened, Dr. Townshend examined the wound, and was impressed with a belief that it was necessarily fatal. Dr. Townshend was succeeded by Dr. D. W. Bliss, whom the President immediately asked to take charge of his case. A number of doctors answered the summons for medical aid with promptness, and from those who came, three more were selected to assist Dr. Bliss, namely, Surgeon-General J. K. Barnes, of the army; and Doctors J. J. Woodward and Robert Reyburn. During Saturday and the ever-eventful Sunday, these gentlemen decided that the best thing to do was to do very