attack," my father
wrote at the beginning, "yet it is attended by fits of exceeding
discomfort, occasional comatoseness, and even delirium to the extent
of making the poor child talk in rhythmic measure, like a tragic
heroine--as if the fever lifted her feet off the earth; the fever being
seldom dangerous, but is liable to recur on slight occasion hereafter."
But, as it turned out, Una's attack was of the worst kind, and she
sank and sank, till it seemed at last as if she must vanish from us
altogether. Eddy and I held melancholy consultations together, for Eddy,
besides being my special crony and confidant, had allowed himself to
conceive a heroic and transcendental passion for my sister--one of the
antique, Spenserian sort--and his concern for her condition was only
less than mine. So we went about with solemn faces, comforting each
other as best we might. I remember, when the crisis of the fever
was reached, taking him into a room and closing the door, and there
imparting to him the news that Una might not recover. We stared drearily
into each other's faces, and felt that the world would never again be
bright for us. Boys are whole-souled creatures; they feel one thing at a
time, and feel it with their might.

However, Una safely passed her crisis, thanks mainly to the wonderful
nursing of her mother, and by carnival-time was able to be out again and
to get her share of sugar-plums and flowers. But my mother was exhausted
by her ceaseless vigils in the sick-room, and my father, as I have
before intimated, never recovered from the long-drawn fear; it sapped
his energies at the root, and the continued infirmity of Una's health
prevented what chance there might have been of his recuperation. Yet for
the moment he could find fun and pleasure in the carnival, and he felt
as never before the searching beauty of the Borghese, the Pincian, and
the galleries. He was also comforted by the companionship of his friend
Franklin Pierce, who, his Presidential term over, had come to Europe to
get the scent of Washington out of his garments. There was a winning,
irresistible magnetism in the presence of this man. Except my father,
there was no man in whose company I liked to be so much as in his. I
had little to say to him, and demanded nothing more than a silent
recognition from him; but his voice, his look, his gestures, his gait,
the spiritual sphere of him, were delightful to me; and I suspect that
his rise to the highest office