I have been so sad today. I spent this forenoon looking over Gertrudes trunks in the garret and this afternoon I went over to our little house and looked over the boxes we packed away more than ten years ago when we broke up house keeping. Our housekeeping articles have gradually disappeared and it was always a melancholy thing to go over there as we occasionally did together to get articles from time to time, for she always indulged a hope that some day we would live there again. I saw so many things that brought back our early married life, so many things that seemed so a part of those happy days. But I find my chief satisfaction now looking over all these things which belonged to her. She is hardly out of my mind a moment. I wonder if I shall always think so constantly of her. I went over to the cemetery this morning to see the man about cutting some of the trees on our lot and digging up the soil and I came back by her grave. A little snow lingered on the shaded walks but the sun was shining warm and bright there. It did not affect me as I thought it might for somehow I do not think of her there. I did not see her laid there and that I do not think of or realize. Today came the announcement that A. T. Stewarts body had been stolen from his vault in St. Marks Place. What a dreadful thing. How easy it would be for such persons to take bodies from our cemetery and it is a thought that has more than once presented itself to me. I had a letter from Platt. I know it was hard for him to write, for he was one of our dearest friends.