Friday, Mar 27, 1885 The spring seems to have come. Today is mild and grey and a slight rain fell towards evening. I confess I begin to long for the Spring days although I know they will be filled with a tender sadness for me. I have tried to paint a little picture but my work is not from the heart. I seem to lack all stimulus. No one comes here to look at pictures and I have almost ceased to expect any one. The picture I sent to Springfield has been injured by fire and none of my ventures are successful. I begin to feel very discouraged but try not to look into the future. Girard has written me wanting more [help?]. I dont at all understand his situation but I fear it is discouraging. Where will it all end? I wrote to Mr. Pelton a letter of sympathy but it seemed to me I could not say much that would be comforting. Still I thought the mere act of writing would show him that he was in my thoughts. Major Wilkinson called. He always seems happy and to be getting on well. I called at the Stoddards in the evening. Mrs. Stoddard spoke most tenderly of my dear Gertrude and of her devotion to me. She said among all the friends she had lost none of them seemed so real as she. What a lovely memory she has left in the hearts of all who ever knew her. I often am amazed that I was thought mostly the love of such a woman.
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