Sunday, Dec 25, 1881 A bright day but fill of sad memories. I could not resist a melancholy feeling. I read my diary and recalled the past Christmases when dear Gertrude was with me and the bitterness of her absence was as fresh and sharp as the day she left me. I read some of her letters and the letters of Mrs. Wheeler and Gifford and Eastman Johnson written to me when she died and gave myself up to the luxury of a sorrow which time does not efface. I thought I should never try to celebrate the holidays again for every thing about them reminds me of my loss and recalls the days that are no more.
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