Jan. 8th, 1888.

I feel that I have lost the only real link with old times. I do not count my brothers, as I think most men, and they especially, do not like remembering.

I keep almost the last letter which speaks so warmly of caring for my letters, and I am glad that I wrote more often than usual lately. Hers was a very wonderful nature in the power of her affections and interests conquering such discomfort as she constantly had. She even spoke warmly of having enjoyed my last visit and I believe she did at times.

Friday, Jan. 1888.

Bessy and I felt very sober not to say dull yesterday evening, and began Lady Mary Wortley which will do- such odd love letters. Good-bye, my dear, I miss you sadly.

Last night B. and I went to the Orchard for some music. It felt cheerful to be like anybody else and I enjoyed it, though as ill-luck would have it, Miss R. played part of the Sonata Pathétique, which I know too well and do not much like at that.