Sunday, May 26, 1889 A gloomy and depressing day. It rained in the night and has been brooding and cold all day. I have sat by a good fire in the sitting room all day alternately reading the Tribune, Madame D'Arbleys diary and writing letters. I wrote to Mary, to Ward and to Charlie McEntee. I have come to that part of Miss Birneys diary where she goes as maid of honor to Queen Charlotte and I seem to share her depression. What a position for so noble a woman, compelled to the life of a mere machine or puppet. Sara is writing in her room, the servants are gone out and the house seems lonely and sad. I long for I know not what. I think as Burroughs says it must be "my youth, my father and mother, my friends." I have written to Miss Nesmith and I found Halls letter which I received shortly after my return, and answered it, which I meant to have done before.
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