Went home Saturday by Powell. Calvert went along. Sunday kept pretty quiet with the boil on the inside of my knee troubling me. Calvert and I walked over to the cemetery. My thoughts were with Gertrude as they always are when I am at home and Gussie and Mary and I talked of her a great deal. This is the season of roses and they were her favorite flowers. Over at my deserted house some of the roses she planted many years ago were in blossom and going about the place brought back our early married life there. My affection for the place now is very strong I find because she loved it so. She always hoped we might live there again. Dear Gertrude. The flying months do not make me forget but they sanctify her sweet memory in my soul and sometimes I feel soften the sorrow of her loss. I could not talk of her yesterday without tears but I am better able most of the time to speak of her than I have been. Calvert and I returned this morning by the Powell. Just before I went on Saturday I made a small charcoal sketch of a figure of a girl watering a vase of flowers suggested by seeing Gertrude water her roses sometimes after she was dressed for the afternoon reaching out with the watering pot and holding back her skirts with the other hand. Mr. Clark came to see me. He said nothing about the picture but I told him I was expecting a person in every day to look at it and if he did not buy it I would try to let him have it.
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