It snowed this morning but only a little. I finished painting Jamies wagon and intended to begin my little picture but it was so late when I finished the wagon and we expected Lucy and John & Miss Wilkins so that I deferred it until tomorrow and did nothing in particular this afternoon except to put up the flags to welcome our guests who came by the 11 o'clock train from N.Y. I think so constantly of Gertrude when I have no work to occupy me. I have thought of her so tenderly and sadly today, even when I was at work alone the regretful tears would come as I thought of her and her unreturning footsteps. Will her absence grow more painful to me or will I grow accustomed to it? I ask myself often. O! what I have lost, what I have lost. Weir sent me a letter of Genl. Seymours from Florence. He was in Thompsons studio when he received the news of Gertrude's death and he remembered me with much sympathy and pity. Here have I come at least to the last page in my diary of the past four years. I take leave of this volume with regret for between its covers are recorded the saddest and most solemn events that life can offer to me and I begin a new one for the record of that uncertain future which awaits me, better prepared I think to meet any trial which it may have in store for me.
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