I see in the papers, with agitation and alarm, the reports about your illness, which, however, are so vague that I can hope they are exaggerations, and that you are no worse than when you sent me the postal card of the 18th of May. You were bad enough then, God knows, and I felt downcast at your condition, though trusting that it was no more than an ill turn, which would pass. I would have written to you earlier, but have had several hideous days myself, and been unfit to write.
One paper speaks of Mr. Bucke as being with you. I hope this is Doctor Bucke, and that he may have come down to you from Canada.
I wait anxiously to hear how you are. If I were not so badly crippled—especially the last few days—I would try to come and hear for myself. But I should be in the way, considering my condition.
If Doctor Bucke is with you, I hope he will pencil me a word, if he can.
Hurriedly, but with fervent hopes and wishes, always affectionately W.D. O'Connor.