Sunday, Nov 2, 1884 Wrote a long letter to Lucy today and sent checks to Hibbard for our winter supply of coal, to Mayer for his bill and to Deyo[?] for his. I am appalled to see my small bank account dwindling away and no prospect of any thing coming in. It keeps me in a continual state of anxiety. My father seems very feeble and to have entirely given up any hope or wish to be better. His voice fails when he attempts to tell anything which is one reason why he does not talk more. John McEntee and Julia were here this evening and the house seemed so much more cheerful for it. A year ago tonight my mother died. I think of her as she lay on her little bed where we placed her after she died looking so peaceful and so entirely at rest and feel that I would not call her back to this sad house if I could. How bravely she bore all the responsibilities of this family and how she kept them in her mind even after she was helpless, troubled about our welfare to the very last. Happily we were in easy circumstances then and I could truthfully assure her that she need have no anxiety. It has been a sober but beautiful day and yet I have had no inclination to walk about to look at the landscape as I once had, too full of troubles to enjoy what was once to full of enjoyment to me. Wrote to Wood concerning the Art Union.
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