Handwritten letter, continuation: 'to say while Mother was ill — I must write to Susan today'

An open-book scan showing two facing leaves of a handwritten letter in brown ink on lined paper. The cursive is dense; both columns begin and end mid-sentence, mid-paragraph.

Left column

to say while Mother was ill “I must write to Susan today” but such a look of anguish would come over his face, that I just knew he could not put down the words he knew & dreaded for you, & for him — Every day he would ask if a letter had been sent in addition to the Telegram, & when we told him that Miss Susie had offered to write, & as she could do nothing to help Mother personally, & I was so anxious to do, it seemed to be a comfort to her — I know that one line from him to you on any of those days, or since, or from Kate, would be more to you than all this telling I could do but Mother is not here to comfort us, & I have such a longing for you to be spared

Right column

one thought of added pain — Auntie, William, & Thomas, are still here & the house goes on as usual. The childrens brightness gives us a sort of common ground, & we try to do every thing as she liked it, but it is to me a sort of dreamy transient life, & I have at times a sort of longing to feel it by myself, as if it would bring me nearer to her — I have so often thought about the time when she would die, & in Church, or at night, or while just sitting at home, I have cried just at the thought, & cried as I could not do for any thing else, in a childish fullness; but now that she is gone it is all unreal, & I feel as if some measureless distance has come between