Here is the last day. There is something sadly suggestive in writing the last [?] of the year which now go by so rapidly and bring so many griefs. I wrote to [?] McEntee a long letter, expressing affection for Uncle and my sorrow at his death, begging him to write me all about his last days. He had a true and tender heart in spite of his cold and repressed exterior. He schooled himself to repress his affections and he reached the lamentable result in the lack of tenderness and sympathy in his old age when he most needed them. He always had a soft spot in his heart for me and I had a sincere affection for him. I walked down to John McEntees to see if he could go out to Uncle Philips funeral thinking I would go if he would, but he could not, and besides it was snowing violently and there was every evidence of a severe storm. I have felt much more cheerful today, notwithstanding there is no reason why I should. I think I am better physically. I made a little winter sketch in water colors from the sitting room yesterday and another from our room, of the snow storm. It is snowing finely now and I enjoy the privacy and seclusion. Maurice did not come home last night and my father who inquired at the Freeman Office finds he had not been there at 11 oclock. Poor, wretched fellow. I wonder where he can be this bitter weather and in this storm, forsaking his comfortable house for the misery which he creates for himself. Gussie and Gertrude arrived this evening. It ceased snowing just before they came and I drove down in the sleigh for them.