Sunday, June 14, 1885 This is the second anniversary of poor Maurices untimely death. The same hot, mournful wind has blown all day as it has for the past two days and as it did the night he lay suffering alone in his room when Sara listened to his moans and sighs mingling with the melancholy moaning of the wind. Sara and I called down at Johns this evening to see Agnes Dibbler who is visiting there and as we came back to the house she remarked that it seemed strange there was no one here to meet us. Indeed it does seem strange and stranger still that I get accustomed to it and am not constantly saddened by it. I gave my father a bath this morning. He seems very feeble, but not more so than usual. Still I recognise on what a frail tenure his life holds. As he sits in his chair with his head bowed, as he often does he seems very old and helpless, yet he had been up all day and does not seem at all unhappy or depressed as he did some time ago. It has been a very warm day and not a pleasant one with the hot west wind. I got up early and picked the peas and mean to do most of my work in the early morning during the hot weather. I wrote to Miss Nesmith and lounged about without a coat most of the day reading the Sunday papers and trying to keep cool.
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