Monday, Apr 11, 1887 Went home yesterday morning, a lovely day with a beautiful atmosphere over the landscape. The river was charming and I saw some stray bits of ice floating in it as far down as Marlboro. Tom met me. The road was dusty and the sunshine too warm for my winter clothing. Sara, Janette and Emily were sitting out on the porch and the doors were open. Janette they told me has not been so well the past week. I saw my father, but although I noticed no particular change he struck me as very old and feeble. Jamie Andrews was there too, came up Thursday to spend his Easter holiday. I went over and looked at the work on Chester St. which has progressed satisfactorily, but so many things will have to be attended to now as the spring comes on that I had a melancholy feeling of discouragement and helplessness. Money is needed every where and as usual at this time I have none and very little prospect of getting any. I feel the hopeful sense which has kept me up all winter, is going and apprehension and anxiety take its place. I seem to have dropped out of the public sight as an artist and if I were to die tomorrow I feel I should not be missed. I went over to the club and had some supper after I returned this evening and afterwards looked over the Art Review. The whole tone of it seemed most discouraging. What I am in sympathy with is treated as obsolete and useless and feeling that this echoes the prevailing taste it depresses me. Then too remembering how I have been treated in the Academy by my dearest friend, it seems to emphasize the idea that I have grown to be superfluous. I feel my circle of friends narrowing and a growing inability to interest them and to attach them to me. Another long summer of anxieties and overwhelming responsibilities stares me in the face and almost paralyzes me.