A very hot day. I wrote to Mrs. Sawyer and also to my father who is to be in Perry on Monday. After tea Lucy and I went over to the cemetery and set out some fragrant violets on Gertrudes grave and cut the grass about it. How much I thought of her today and how I longed for her as I sat alone in my room at home where she was a year ago. I wrote to Mrs. Sawyer that I hoped I was beginning to get a little accustomed to her absence except when I saw something of hers, something closely connected with her, and then it all comes back to me with a sharpness that does not lessen. I was feeling very sad, looking out of the window on the summer landscape, thinking how she used to enjoy it when I was there and Sara came in weeping. I suppose she heard my sighs for she too was thinking of dear Gertrude. I read some of my letters to her last year, but sometimes I think it would be better for me not to go to my past, to resist it all I can and yet I cannot bear to turn away from any thought of her.