A year has gone since Dear Gertrude left me. I have thought of her all day but have talked but little of her. Words seem so poor and weak to me remembering her last hours which all came back to me so vividly today as a thing of yesterday. I long to be at home. The unhappy news from Maurice adds to my anxiety and when I suffer myself to reflect I can find much to discourage--still I feel strong to meet trouble, stronger than I ever did before.