And it concluded with a loyal defence of his old friend and associate, “Bill” Nye, who, having aroused the ire of an audience at Paterson, N.J., had been roughly set upon and egged by a turbulent crowd of men while on his way to the railroad station.  Field indignantly repelled the suggestion that Nye’s indiscretion was due to inebriety, but traced it to his bad health.  “Only the utmost caution,” he wrote, “and the most scrupulous observance of the rules laid down by his physician have enabled Nye to go ahead with his work.  This work in itself has been arduous.  If there is anything more vexatious or more wearing than travelling about the country in all kinds of weather and at the mercy of railroads, and lecture-bureaus, and hotel-keepers, we do not know it.”

And yet, at the very moment Field wrote this he, a more delicately organized invalid than “Bill” Nye, had his ticket bought, his state-room engaged, and his trunk packed to leave for Kansas City, where he was to give a reading on the evening of Monday, November 4th.  He felt so indisposed on Saturday that he did not leave his bed.  That, however, did not prevent his finishing Chapter XIX of the “Love Affairs.”  As it was no unusual thing for him to write, as well as read, in bed, this occasioned no alarm in the family circle.  But that evening he decided to give up the Kansas City trip, and asked his brother Roswell to wire the management of the affair to that effect.  On Sunday he was still indisposed, but received numerous visitors.  To one of them, who remarked that it was a perfect November day, Field said:  “Yes, it is a lovely day, but this is the season of the year when things die, and this fine weather may mean death to a thousand people.  We may hear of many deaths to-morrow.”

In the evening he complained of a pain in his head; and as he was feeling a little feverish, Dr. Hedges, who lived near by, was called in.  He came about half-past ten o’clock; and after taking Field’s temperature, which was only slightly above normal, said it was due to weakness, and probably resulted from the excitement of seeing so many visitors.  Field joked with the doctor, told him several stories, and was assured that he was getting on all right.  Before leaving, the doctor said that if it was fine on Monday it would do Field good to get out and take some exercise.  Shortly before midnight a message came from Kansas City, asking when he would be able to appear there.  He dictated an answer, saying that he would come November 16th.  Then wishing everybody goodnight, he turned over and went to sleep as peacefully as any little child in one of his stories.

An hour before daylight the sleeper turned in his bed and groaned.  His second son, “Daisy,” who always slept with his father, spoke to him, but got no answer.  Then he reached over and touched him; but there was not the usual response of a word or a caress.  In terror-stricken recognition of the awful presence, Daisy alarmed the whole household with his cry, “Come quick!  I believe papa is dead!”