Today has been cold and windy with snow squalls along the mountains. I employed myself fixing fastenings to the garret window, fastened the lightning rod on my house which had blown down, put up the stove in the servants room and the front hall stove in which my father built a fire this evening. Last night before I went to bed I read two of Gertrudes letters written to me from Clinton while she was there attending to her grandmother and her father during their illness. They were written just after her grandmother died. Such filial devotion as they breathe such love and duty came to me across those sixteen years as almost to overwhelm me. How hard she worked and what anxiety she suffered and how faithfully she took up the burdens which she felt she was called to bear. Dear Gertrude! How I cried over those sad days with you and how near me you were in my holy memories of you. Sara came to my room late and consoled me with her loving sympathy and tenderness. I think Sara mourns for Gertrude almost as much as I do. Today I wrote to Charlie Sykes and to Mr. Boardman. The November wind is blowing outside. We used together to defy its melancholy but how sad it is now to me here alone.
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