Wednesday, Oct 14, 1885 Seven years ago tonight my dear Gertrude died. I have been thinking and living over that sad time and recalling every incident. How fast the years go by. It all seems as fresh in my mind as the events of yesterday and it colors every thing to me with the strange, lonely feeling that fell upon me that night and makes me wonder that I have borne it as well as I have. But life is very different since then and its hopefulness and elasticity seems gone. I look backward now for courage and solace and not in the future as I once did. Sara had a letter from Lucy tonight in which she speaks of Gertrudes death and of the beauty of that autumn which remains in her memory, But oh! what can I say or think that I have not said and thought a thousand times and never come any nearer any thing like expressing what lies so heavy in my heart. I had Tom pick the winter pears today and I gathered all the grapes and packed away a box full wrapped in papers to try to keep them. We never had so many and so fine ones. It rained violently again about noon but has been clear and warm since.