Sunday, Nov 25, 1888 It began to snow this forenoon gradually with a strong N. E. wind and has continued furiously all day, the wind roaring as I write. How fortunate that all my preparations for the winter are completed and particularly that I finished shingling the roof. Sara, Lucy, Mrs Davis and I have sat before the wood fire all day and enjoyed the "Tumultuous privacy of the Storm". There is something very soothing and satisfying to me in such a storm surrounded by all the home comforts and today I have felt the thrill of feelings that I had almost supposed were dead in me. Mrs Davis showed me a note which dear Gertrude wrote for her to Mr. Abbey in 1877 acknowledging his kindness in sending her the interest on some money he owed her husband when he failed. How familiar her hand writing, lasting unchanged while she is no more. Dear Gertrude, how vividly it brought her before me, the dear loving heart whose counterpart does not exist for me in all the wide world. I measure all women by her and they all come short to me. I wrote to Alice this morning, have read the Leader, the Tribune and some of Victor Hugo's Notre Dame. I cut this little poem from todays Tribune.
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