It has been a characteristic November day, grey and somewhat windy with snow squalls along the mountains and toward evening with grand and solemn effects of dark skies and fitful lights opposite the sun. Maurice and I raised the flags and they have been flying all day. Maurice went down to the post office and brought me one of Alices sweet and affectionate letters which in a measure in their love and sisterly feeling take the place of Gertrudes love. They are filled with memories of her she loved so fondly. She enclosed this beautiful poem which she said seemed to have been written for me. We had our Thanksgiviing dinner at three o'clock and no one was here beside our own family except Mary and Marian and Miss McAdam. There was no sadness although we have talked much of Gertrude, but a cheerful and happy time just as she would have had it and as it would have been if she had been here, as she was in spirit. I worked a little while in the forenoon fixing the box in which are our letters and which used to belong to my mother and is one of my earliest memories. This evening I wrote to Mr. Sawyer and Mary and and I sat late in the parlor and talked of Gertrude and wept over our tender memories of her.